


How to Make Something New

by fadesfanfic



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Barbara Gordon is Oracle, and cass's backstory if we get into it, batfam, cw child abuse for damians backstory, moderate descriptions of violence, none of them had happy childhoods they need hugs i cry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 96,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadesfanfic/pseuds/fadesfanfic
Summary: In the wake of Bruce Wayne's Death, Gotham is in turmoil. As the man who's worked with him the longest, Dick feels like it's up to him to keep the tattered remains of the family together. Complicating matters are his relationship with his on-again, off-again girlfriend, and finding Bruce's biological son: Dick's ten-year-old brother who was raised as an assassin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be updating much slower than Batman and Son Rewrite, just for the heads up. That once a day update schedule isn't sustainable for a longfic like this.

It’s 8:30 a.m., after a long night of patrol, and Dick Grayson still hasn’t gotten any sleep. He couldn’t -- he tried for an hour and a half before calling it. But he didn’t have anything to _do_ during the day, now that he left his day job, so he’s just stuck with his stupid thoughts and loneliness and wondering if he could’ve done something different, if somehow, he could have saved Bruce.

    He’s been tired since Bruce’s death, honestly. He’d never have admitted it out loud, but he wasn’t expecting to outlive Bruce -- spending most of your formative years fighting and seeing friends injured or dying tends to put a pretty realistic assessment of your own mortality, and he’s been _painfully_ aware that he’s just one stray bullet away from death. Even though Bruce is as well, though, it never _felt_ like that. And besides, Dick has already lost two parents, he couldn’t really bear to imagine losing any more.

    So now, he’s just unable to sleep and trying to figure out how he’s going to get enough energy to go on patrol again when the workday ends for most people, since the patrol hours got extended _a lot_ with no Batman and the criminal underworld in chaos due to rumors.

    He finds himself unwittingly in front of Babs’s apartment, not remembering when he decided to walk there, but clearly his legs decided that’s where he needed to be -- in the presence of one of his oldest friends and his currently “on pause” fiancee -- though whether they were ever getting “off pause” was a question that he couldn’t really bring himself to think about right now.

    He sighs and figures he might as well knock on the door while he’s here. A couple seconds later and he’s looking down at the most beautiful woman he’s seen in his life, even with heavy bags under her eyes from lack of sleep, a giant baggy T-shirt with some coffee stains,  and spiked-up, haven’t-showered-in-four-days hair.

    Babs takes off her glasses and rubs her face quickly. “Dick, what are you doing here?”

    Dick shrugs, wondering halfway if this wasn’t a bad idea, if he shouldn’t still be working. In the apartment behind Barbara, he can see there’s a bunch of monitors set up to help _her_ with her work -- even though she’d said she felt like she lost her edge when the Birds of Prey disbanded, she’s still being Oracle. Right now, he’s pretty sure she’s the only one keeping Batman’s allies together with her intel and reconnaissance, and she’s _definitely_ the one sending out missions and monitoring the situation best.

    “Can I come in?” Dick asks.

    Babs nods and rolls back a pace, letting him enter the room, and then re-shuts her door. He can see her quickly punching in a code and arming a security system -- even though she just moved in, she already has it set up the way she wants.

    “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” she says as she gets back in front of her monitors and quickly shuts them off. “Or -- ”

    “You don’t have to stop doing what you were doing,” Dick says as he meanders over to the kitchen. The apartment isn't big enough that he has to shout, they’re still practically in the same room. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

    “I was going to take a break anyway,” she says. “I’ve been at it all night, and things seem to be mostly wound down. If there’s a red alert, it’ll pop up, but in the meanwhile…”

    “Time to rest?” Dick asks. He pours himself a cup of coffee and scoups in three spoons of sugar. “You want a cup?”

    Babs shakes her head. “ _I_ intend on getting to sleep sometime ever, Dick.”

    Dick downs his coffee all in one go. It’s a little stale, it’s been out for a while, but that doesn’t really matter right now. He’s just hoping the caffeine will help him focus.

    “How are you holding up?” Babs asks.

    Dick shrugs. “I guess okay,” he says. His voice feels flat as he says it, and he knows she’ll know it’s a lie. She’s nice enough not to call him on it, though. She just wheels over to her couch and transfers. Dick walks over and sits next to her.

    “How are _you_ holding up?” he asks. Even though she wasn’t as close to Bruce as he was, they were still friends, and she _has_ had to get back into Oracle pretty hard to manage things since his death.

    Babs doesn’t answer, though. She just smiles slightly and shakes her index finger at him in admonition. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Dick Grayson.”

    Dick tries to return her smile. He’s not quite sure he succeeds. “What _am_ I doing? If I have ulterior motives, I’m unaware of them.”

    “And that’s what makes you so cute.” She leans back a little, resting in the cushion, and she still has her slight smile but he can tell she’s being serious. “Worrying about me. Or I should say, worrying about _everyone_ but yourself.”

    Dick sighs. She’s right, of course. She’s always right. But he _likes_ to comfort his friends. That’s a good thing, right? And besides, right now, it feels like his problems are of the nature that they can’t be fixed. Better to focus on problems that can.

    “And you weren’t just worrying about me?” he asks. “It hardly seems fair, if you can worry about me but I can’t worry about you.”

    “Yes, but as a technonerd, my brain comes equipped with multiple microprocessors, so I can compute all my worries in parallel at the same time.”

    Dick rolls his eyes. “Let’s be serious for a moment,” he says.

    She straightens out. “Fine. You first.”

    Dick grimaces. “I guess I walked into that one.”

    He sighs. He leans back on the couch and tries to think of the right way to say this that won’t sound… well, that won’t worry Barbara.

    “I guess,” he says slowly. “I guess I feel like it’s all falling apart. Everything Bruce built. And it’s up to me to keep it together.”

    “Why you?”

    He shrugs. He’s tried to figure out how to articulate that. “I guess I’ve been with him the longest… I’ve been ‘at this’ for over sixteen years…”

    “I’ve been ‘at it’ for over twelve. Cass has been at it for twenty-one years -- since birth.”

    “I guess.”

    “I think you need to get over yourself,” Barbara says.  
    “Excuse me? I thought you wanted to comfort me!”

    “I didn’t say that. I want to _reality check_ you, Dick. Sometimes, you wind yourself up. And if you think this is something you have to do alone, you’re going to burn out.” Unspoken: like before, when he was trying to be a cop in Bludhaven, manage a relationship, volunteer, and be Nightwing.

    Or maybe Babs wasn’t even thinking of that, and that’s just him projecting.

    Barbara keeps going: “I’m not going to deny that everyone does better with you here, Dick. You have a lot of experience getting people to work together and managing everyone’s emotions and expectations in a way where they’re happy, which I don’t always have.”

    Dick snorts a little.  
    Barbara gives him an incredibly unamused look. “Fine, which I don’t _usually_ have. We’re better with you here. But we’re not better with you running yourself to the ground, and you’re not the _only_ one here. Every one of Bruce’s allies would be willing to step up if it’s required of them.”

    Dick rubs his face. “Fine. I can see that.” He gives her a sidelong glance. “You know, I don’t like you. You know me to well.”

    “I don’t like you either, Hunk Wonder.”

    Dick frowns a little. It’s normally just one of Babs’s many nicknames for him, but right now it just seems like a reminder of the past. He pushes through though. “So isn’t it your turn now, Babs? You can’t just trick me into talking about my problems without you talking about yours.”

    “I mean I _could_ ,” she says. “But I’m nice, so I won’t.” She sighs and starts stretching out her arms.

    “You know things have been pretty chaotic in my life right now,” she says. “With Calculator and that Braniac tumor and the anti-life equation…”

    “Yeah,” Dick says, even though he’s not quite sure she told him _all_ about this. He didn’t hear about the artificial intelligence tumor she had until it was already removed, and he can _swear_ he hasn’t heard the name ‘Calculator’ since he was a kid.

    She purses her lips a little, and Dick can tell she’s already debating whether to tell him something or not.

    _C’mon, Babs, how hard is it to let someone in…_

    “I think I messed up,” she says eventually. “I think I’ve been letting things that shouldn’t get to me get to me.”

    “Things such as…?”

    Babs presses her lips together in a thin line. “Feeling defenseless,” she says again after a pause.

    “Why would you feel defense -- ?”

    “Please _think_ before finishing that sentence,” Barbara says. “You’ve always been more than able-bodied, you’ve been _super_ abled almost. And I’m not saying I have any problem with… me. But the threats we face don’t really believe in the ADA or reasonable accommodations.”

    Dick waits. He doesn’t know if there’s anything he can say right now that won’t sound condescending or fake.

    “There was a confrontation with the Joker -- ”

    “The _Joker_ ?” Dick blurts out. He feels like a jerk immediately afterwards, but still -- why didn’t she _tell_ him? He reaches a hand towards her before realizing she probably won’t appreciate that right now.

    “Yes, Dick. The Joker. Now can I finish?”

    Dick nods silently.

    Barbara sighs again. She runs a hand through her hair and says, “Either way. Things went fine until he got out of my guard. It was just a reminder that… well, of where my talents lie, I guess.” Her voice drops and her mouth twists down in a pained grimace. “How helpless I can be.”

    Dick is mentally composing what to say. He knows he needs to say something. He doesn’t think he’s heard Babs talk about being disabled -- like it was actually preventing her from doing something -- like this in a _very_ long time.

    “Babs,” he says eventually. “I’m going to preface this with saying I’m not sure if this is going to sound super condescending or able-bodied-ish -- ”

    “ _Always_ encouraging to hear,” she says.

    “Heh. Yeah.” When she doesn’t talk more, though, he takes it as permission to keep going. “But I know that being able-bodied would make things easier, but you do _way_ better against most threats than most able-bodied people would -- superheroes or otherwise. Remember when you had me and Bruce try to get past your security?”

    Barbara snickers at the memory.

    Dick grins a little, encouraged by her lightening up. “Or how with _all_ of the guys Blockbuster sent after you, you still took them out? Or helping rescue my sorry ass in No Man’s Land? I don’t think anyone’s better prepared than you. I don’t think you’re helpless. I think you’re the furthest thing from it.”

    Barbara smiles slightly, but then she looks away. Staring at her monitors, sadly. “Dick, I know what you’re trying to do, but… there’s a reason all of my bases are so well defended and I’m so well prepared. They can’t _not_ be. I can’t _not_ be. I can’t just jump through a window and run when things get tough. Don’t get me wrong -- I’m not saying that I’m going to look for some magic pill or cure, or even that if one existed I’d definitely take it. But -- but the world’s still dangerous, and I’m not going to pretend it isn’t.”

    “I know,” Dick says, and this time, he does let his hand reach out to her and squeeze her shoulder.

    “This better not be some ‘I’ll protect you’ thing,” Babs says.

    Dick shakes his head. “I won’t have to protect you,” he says. “You won’t need me to.”

    She sighs and leans in to him. Dick resists the urge to wrap his arms around her and smother her in kisses and affection, because it doesn’t seem like the exact right moment, even if they weren’t “on pause”.  Instead, he just lets himself take in her warmth as they slowly lull off to sleep.

 

***

 

Dick grumbles as he rides up the elevator to the penthouse.

    He was rudely awoken from his mid-morning nap with Babs by a call from building security, and he is _not_ happy. And he has to come as Dick Grayson, because the security sounded like they were expecting Dick Grayson to come, not Nightwing or someone who could get across town in three seconds flat on a jet-powered glider. _God_ he misses his jet-powered glider.

    Either way, he’s not super enthused to have to come back here and talk to the landlord. He doesn’t even know why Bruce _has_ a penthouse. He’s pretty sure Bruce used it to have date-nights in the city back when he was young and trying to keep up the playboy persona, just because it’d be _awkward_ to take a lady back to the manor you have a kid at, but Bruce hasn’t been trying to maintain that persona in years. Dick thinks he just got tired of it and the pretension and lies. Or maybe he just realized it was less endearing at forty than it was at thirty, and harder to justify the many scars he’d picked up over the course of his life.

    Dick finally gets to the top floor. There’s a security guard there who _seems_ surprised to see him. “Are you the property owner?” he asks.

    Dick shakes his head. “Bruce is out of the country.” He doesn’t know why they’ve been going with that -- he’s _dead_ , he’s never coming back. But no one’s been able to admit that he’s dead to the public, they’ve been too worried about other things to manufacture an excuse. “I’m should also be listed as a resident here, though.” He mentally snorts at that image, because no one is a _resident_ of the penthouse. No one lives here.

    “Right,” the security guard says. “Then you’ll probably want to see this.”

    He unlocks the door and leads Dick in. The penthouse looks mostly like it did last time Dick saw it -- fake plant by the doorway, large circular couch in front of a TV, giant window with -- with --

    “Who cut a _hole_ in the window?!” Dick asks, running up to it. The hole is circular and about a foot in diameter. It reminds him kind of how Catwoman would get into places, but he’s not sure she’d fit through this and she wouldn’t be a huge enough asshole to rob Bruce’s places when he’s _dead_. He thinks.

    “That’s what I was going to talk to you about,” the security guard says. “So… someone’s definitely been breaking and entering, right?”

    Dick nods. “ _We_ sure as hell didn’t do that.”

    “I’ll call the police,” the guard says, but Dick holds his hand up to stop him.

    “I’m going to look around,” Dick says.

    “Sir, it could be dangerous,” the guard says. “Let me.”

    Dick grimaces. Stupid secret identities. This had better be a regular breaker-and-enter-er, or he’s going to feel really bad for letting the guard peek around the corners first.

    As they walk through the kitchen, Dick checks the garbage disposal. There’s been something put down there. He unplugs it and starts to investigate and the smell hits him all at once. Ugh. Practically an entire box of lo mein.

    “I’m going to clean this out -- ” he says, head still buried in the sink, when there’s a loud _thwuck_. Dick jolts up, hitting his head on a pipe as he gets out and --

    The guard is on the ground. Standing above him and holding his own baton is a kid who can’t be older than ten. Dick sighs when he recognizes him -- they’d only met briefly before, but it’d be hard to forget Bruce’s incredibly rude, raised-as-an-assassin biological son.

    _He looks just like him_ Dick thinks as he sees him, even though the kid is at least 50 percent Talia. But the shape of his cheeks, the turn of his eyebrows -- heck, even his _scowl_ are just reminding him of Bruce.

    “Grayson,” the boy says, swinging the baton through the air. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

    “Why not? It’s our _house_.”

    “‘Our’?”

    “It belongs to Bruce’s family.”

    “Then it belongs to _me_.”

    Dick grimaces. “Look, you can’t just -- wait, have you been _living_ in here?!”

    Damian tilts his head up slightly and attempts to look down his nose at Dick. “Of course I have. It’s my _birthright_ , isn’t it?”  
    Nice to see Dick’s memories weren’t embellished at all, and the kid was just as abrasive as Dick remembered him being.

    “And the chinese food in the garbage disposal?” Dick asks.

    Damian makes a face. “It was foul. I was attempting to rid myself of it.”

    “Yeah, good job.”

    Damian scowls. “I expect you’ll inform my father of my presence here,” he says. “It hardly seems like you to keep secrets.”  
    Shit.

    Damian doesn’t know Bruce is dead.

    Dick pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out how to break the news to an emotionally-volatile ten-year-old. If he felt like it, he could just dump the news-breaking of it on Alfred, but that would be a jerk move. Alfred gets the short stick of dealing with Wayne family emotional fallout enough as it is.

    Still, he needs to at least gain enough of Damian’s confidence that the kid won’t run away, because he’s guessing Bruce wouldn’t want him to lose his son. Great, there’s that side-order of guilt no one asked for.

    “Why don’t you want him to know?” Dick asks.

    Damian shrugs. “It’s hardly as if I fear him knowing of my presence. I merely… there’s a slight possibility he might construe it wrong.”

    That’s one way of putting it. “Because you tried to kill Tim?” Dick asks.

    Damian’s scowl intensifies.

    “Look -- Damian, was it?” Dick asks, even though he does remember the kids name. “You can’t just live in -- ”

    “Ugggg,” moans the security guard, sitting up. Damian draws back his baton, preparing to whack him again, but Dick grabs his wrist to stop him.

    “Did you see the guy who got me?” the guard asks, rubbing his head. He looks up at the tiny Damian, who’s holding the baton, and says, “That can’t possibly be right.”

    Damn, Dick doesn’t want Damian to get sent to _jail_ . “I am _so, so sorry_ ,” Dick says, helping the guard up. “I think we scared my little… brother.”

    “Brother?” Damian asks skeptically. “I mean, of course I’m his brother.”

    “How many kids does Mr. Wayne _have_?” the guard asks. “And how’d you get my baton?”

    “Well, your grip was rather feeble -- ” Damian starts, but Dick cuts him off.

    “Yeah, I’m so sorry about this,” Dick continues. “His mother must have dropped him off without telling us.”

    Damian snorts, but doesn’t deny Dick’s story.

    “It was really unprofessional on our part to not check where he was,” Dick says. “I’ll… I’ll pay for your medical bills.”

    “What medical bills?” Damian asks. “You don’t need -- ” Dick covers Damian’s mouth with a hand.

    “Thank you,” the guard says. “I think I have a concussion.”

    Damian only lets Dick’s hand rest on his mouth for a moment, next thing Dick knows the kid has grabbed his hand, leaped up, and brought his other arm down right on where Dick’s elbow joint _would_ have been if Dick wasn’t a hair faster. He was trying to break his arm, hyperextending it at the elbow. As it happens, he only succeeded in whacking his forearm into Dick’s triceps, which is _definitely_ going to bruise later.

    “Ow,” Dick says, and Damian says, “Don’t touch me, _circus brat_.”

    Dick groans.

    The security guard looks between the two of them in confusion.

    “It’s fine,” Dick says. “It’s a family problem. We’ll be fine.”

    The guard writes down his contact information, so Dick can reach him later to help, and then leaves. Dick glowers at Damian the instant it’s safe.

    “ _What_ ?” Damian asks. “You should be glad I didn’t bite one of your fingers off. What did you expect, _manhandling me_ like that?”

    “I don’t know, that you’d be quiet for _two freaking seconds_ while I tried to get you out of a criminal charge?!”

    “A criminal charge? That’s rich, I didn’t do anything criminal!”

    “You assaulted a man!”

    “I just hit him on the head!”

    Dick rubs his temples and lets his hands drag down on his cheeks in exasperation.

    “Enough over-dramatization, Grayson. Take me to my father.”

    Oh great. Now that they’ve properly antagonized each other, the “Bruce is dead” talk is going to go over even worse than it would otherwise.

    For a moment, Dick feels anger bubbling in his stomach. It’s not _fair_ , he thinks, that he should have to think of a nice way to say this to Damian when Damian’s met the man once or twice and Dick has lost his father figure of sixteen-plus years.

    Dick gestures at a stool -- of course Bruce’s penthouse kitchen doesn’t have chairs and a normal table, it’s just got a bar and stools -- and takes a seat on another one himself. Damian hops up nimbly and easily on the stool, like it wasn’t at his chest-height.

    “Damian, I’ll tell you everything you want to know about Bruce, but first I need to ask you some questions.”

    Damian frowns, but says, “That’s fair, I suppose.”

    “Where’s your mother?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Did she just get up and leave -- ”

    “ _I_ left _her_ , Grayson,” Damian says. He looks a little down and pokes at the bar’s countertop, unenthused. For one brief moment, the anger and scowl on his face seems to dissipate and he says in a much quieter voice, “I… I couldn’t be with her right now.”

    “Did something happen?”

    Damian shakes his head. “Of course not!” he exclaims. Back to the downward set eyebrows, scowl, and proud and loud voice. “But you _clearly_ need me in Gotham more, with how things are going on. Someone needs to show you amateurs how it’s done, and it’s clear my _father_ isn’t keeping as tight a rein on you as he should.”

    Dick sighs a little. He’s having a hard time recovering his earlier annoyance at Damian, with how sad he looked for a moment. That’s his problem, Barbara would say, he’s just too damn nice and worried about everyone else.

    “Okay,” Dick says. “And what have you been doing in here?”

    “Living. Monitoring the situation in Gotham. There’s a distressing uptick in crime, and certainly disturbing _false_ rumors are going around about the state of my father…” Dick can tell that Damian must be watching his face, because the kid trails off and narrows his eyes in concern. “They’re true, aren’t they?” he asks.

    “I’m sorry,” Dick says.

    “ _You’re_ sorry?!” Damian snaps. He hops off the stool and pushes Dick a little, but he’s too small and Dick’s too ready for him for him to knock him down. “What do _you_ have to be sorry about? _You’re_ probably happy! Now you get to inherit -- ”

    Dick grabs Damian’s wrist and the boy tenses up completely when he does and Damian draws back a fist, clearly ready to punch him in the face. “Damian, I am _trying_ to be nice here,” Dick says through clenched teeth. “But you aren’t the only one who’s missing Bruce. He was like a _father_ to me.”

“And he’ll never be able to be like a father to me now!” Damian says. He quickly twists his wrist out of Dick’s grip and takes a step back, putting him outside of Dick’s guard. “It’s clear coming here was a mistake -- ”

“It’s not,” Dick says quickly. He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he feels like he has to stop this kid from leaving, but he does. He doesn’t know if Damian will go back to the League of Shadows if he doesn’t, and he doesn’t want either Bruce’s son or _any kid_ at all to be stuck there. “Look,” Dick says. “I know it’s rough -- ”

    “ _Tt._ It’s not _rough_.”

    “I know it’s rough, but don’t you want to at least get something real in your stomach? You can’t have been surviving on only ‘foul’ food for this long.”

    Damian purses his lips, but his stomach rumbles.

    “Alfred's a really good cook,” Dick adds.

    “He’s _adequate_ ,” Damian says, and Dick resists the urge to ask if the kid thinks _anything_ or anyone is better than adequate. “And you’re avoiding the problem. Why aren’t you more upset?”

    “I _am_ upset,” Dick says. “It’s all right if I don’t drop to my knees and cry in front of someone I _just met_ , isn’t it?”

    Damian clicks his teeth together. “Fine,” he says. “That seems reasonable. But I don’t require your help or your food. I can take care of myself.”

    Dick sighs. This is going to be _really painful_ for his ego, but he figures it’s the only option to keep an eye on Damian and keep him from running off. “Well, maybe we need you,” he says.

    Damian blinks. “You do? I mean, of course you do. What for?”

    “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but everyone is stretched _really thin_ right now. Gotham’s in chaos. We need every single one of your father’s allies on deck.”

“Fine,” Damian says. “It seems logical that you need my skills if you’re to triumph in my father’s absence. I have doubt of your prowess in military tactics or covert missions.”

    Charming kid. But Dick nods. “We’ll find a place for you,” he says. “I’m sure of it.”

    Damian makes a _tt_ noise again, and the two of them are off, back to the Batcave and to protect Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events referenced by Barbara happened in Birds of Prey and Oracle: the Cure.
> 
> Also I was a little bit unsure about including Babs's uncertainty around being disabled, because I'm not a huge fan of it being a theme as often as it is, but it seems like it was important to how uncertain she was feeling about her life situation in general at this time.
> 
> Also -- I'm unsure if this matches up to how Damian joined the Batfam in canon. To the best of my knowledge, he saves Alfred in Batman RIP (but is still mostly with his mother) and then appears later somehow working with them in Battle for the Cowl, with no explanation. When Damian explains he left his mother, it's not based off of canon thing, but off my Resurrection of Ra's Al Ghul one-shots.


	2. Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian arrives in Gotham and is recruited by his Father's allies as they try to contain the chaos in the wake of Batman's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is highly inspired by Secret Origins #4, but more from Damian's POV than Dick and Alfred's (as it was in the comic).
> 
> also: some moderate descriptions of violence starting here.

For the first time in his ten years of life, Damian doesn’t know his last name.

He knows what it  _ used  _ to be -- he was Damian Al Ghul, proud heir to Ra’s Al Ghul, destined to carry on the Al Ghul dynasty and rule over a world that could not rule over itself. But since he learned of his grandfather’s plan to possess him, that sounds like a bitter lie, mocking him for ever being stupid enough to believe it. He’d left his mother behind shortly after Grandfather’s plot, unable to bear the reminder of who he was supposed to be and the pain of all of the broken promises of his childhood.

He knows what his surname  _ could  _ be -- he could be Damian Wayne, son of the Batman who protects Gotham City and hunts down evildoers in the night. But that also has a mocking tone ever since his father’s death. Damian had only ever seen his father briefly, for a few days here and there, some of which were pregnant with disapproval of all of Damian’s choices. And now, he’ll never have a chance to find out what his father could have meant to him. He wants to kick himself for wasting time sneaking around Gotham, investigating things carefully and… well, being too worried about rejection to speak to him straight away. 

No, Damian had never gotten the courage to go up to the manor. The last time he was there, he only went because there was trouble -- some of Father’s enemies had invaded the place, and Damian had rescued his servant Pennyworth, whom Damian made swear would not speak of his involvement in this. Pennyworth had told him that he was welcome back at the manor should he choose to return, but Damian had rejected the option and returned to his previous reconnaissance.

Now, Damian allows himself to be escorted back to the manor by one of his father’s allies, Richard Grayson. At least, Damian assumes his name is Richard, since the others called him  _ Dick _ last time they met, and Dick is an abbreviation of the name. But he’s most certainly not calling the man Dick -- he’s not even calling him  _ Richard _ . First names or nicknames suggest familiarity where none exists. 

Father’s servant, Alfred Pennyworth, is waiting in the doorway when Grayson and Damian arrive. Grayson takes off his suit jacket as he gets in and asks Alfred to prepare some food for them. He looks at Damian. “What do you want?”

Damian shrugs. He likes lots of food, but is unsure how much father’s servant can cook, despite Grayson’s appraisal of the man’s talents. Still, he’s unwilling to volunteer information about his personal preferences. “Whatever you have,” he says. “As long as it’s good.”

“It’s  _ always _ good, Master Damian,” Pennyworth says. 

“Something healthy with lots of carbs,” Grayson adds. “I’m going to need a  _ ton  _ of energy tonight.”

Pennyworth smiles a little before he leaves. “I’m glad to see you here, Master Damian,” he says. 

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. 

“You know,” Grayson says after Pennyworth leaves, “We’re  _ all  _ glad you're here.”

Damian highly doubts that. “ _ Father  _ wouldn’t be,” he says, because it feels true after the way Father had reacted to him trying to kill Drake. To his body count in general.

“What makes you say that?” Grayson asks.

Is the man completely obtuse? He  _ knows  _ Damian tried to kill Drake. He  _ knows  _ his Father’s policy on ending his foes’ lives. But Damian doesn’t spell it out for Grayson. He doesn’t want to see the man agree with him, agree that Father wouldn’t want him here. Instead, he says, “Aren’t you going to show me your center of operations so I can assist you in your problems?”

Grayson sighs. “You don’t want to get anything to eat first?”

“It will probably take a while to cook.”

“You don’t want a tour of the mansion?”   
“I’ve already had one.” Damian doesn’t like this. Was Grayson lying earlier?

“All right, then we might as well get down to the Batcave.”

Wait, it’s actually called ‘the Batcave’? Damian and mentally been referring to his father’s cave as ‘the cave’ this entire time. 

As they enter, Damian does his best not to be impressed with the size or scope of the cav -- Batcave. He’s already been here, he’s seen Father’s trophies, which he’s learned  _ are not  _ trophies of kills but rather victories -- Father had a no-kill policy for his enemies, which enabled them to wreak havoc at later dates. In fact, half of what Damian gathers from the current situation is that a truckload of them  _ are  _ wreaking havoc after having broken out of Arkham. Damian knows his father isn’t  _ entirely  _ to blame. The poor security is also at fault. But still it seems like an admission of weakness for his father to not end his foes’ lives, and Damian had never extracted a justification for it when they met. The only thing Father had told him of the matter is that it wasn’t supposed to be easy, it’s supposed to be  _ right _ . But ‘right’ was such a vague word that could mean anything one wanted it to mean. His grandfather believed that taking over or annihilating a large portion of human life on Earth was the  _ right  _ thing to do, yet he knows Father would never agree.

Damian groans as he goes further into the cave. Who was he expecting to see -- except for the boy Father had clearly viewed as his  _ real  _ son, his rival whom he’d attempted to kill, Tim Drake.

Drake is dressed in his Robin costume (which looks ridiculous on him, by the way) and scowls the instant he sees Damian. “What is  _ he  _ doing here?” he asks in an obnoxious, shrill tone.

“Tim, Damian needs a place to stay -- ” Grayson begins.

“Hardly!” Damian says. “ _ You  _ people need  _ me _ ! You said as much.”

“You did, did you?” asks Drake, glowering at Grayson now.

Drake walks straight past Damian, right in Grayson’s face, and says in a low-pitched voice, “Are you forgetting that this little psycho tried to kill me?”

“Of course I’m not -- ”

“Then why’s he here?”

Damian swallows bile at the idea, but he supposes he has to let Drake know that Father impressed upon him the error of trying to kill him. At least, Father had let him know he wouldn’t get away with it. “If it will make you more comfortable, I swear I won’t kill you,” Damian says.

Drake clearly does not react to Damian’s generosity in the way that he’d expected. He instead grabs a collapsed bo-staff from his belt and extends it. “I’d like to see you  _ try _ !”

Grayson steps between the two of them, leaving Drake armed and at his back.  _ Idiot _ .

“Do we have to do this?” he asks. He turns his head a hair towards Drake and says “Tim,  _ please _ . We can use everyone we can get right about now.”   
Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. ‘Everyone we can get’. As if he’s only being recruited for lack of standards! 

“Yeah, and what makes you think Damian won’t be more trouble than he’s worth? How do you know he won’t  _ kill  _ everyone, like he did with the Spook?”

“If I were to kill your enemies, it’d actually  _ solve  _ your problems,” Damian says. 

Grayson presses his palm against his face and groans, clearly more interested in pantomiming exaggerated disapproval than maintaining awareness of his surroundings. “Damian, you can’t kill people,” Grayson says. 

Damian nods reluctantly. It’s not as if he didn’t know that would be the rule. Everyone in Father’s circle seems to be obsessed with giving their enemies second chances. “I swear I won’t do it,” he says, painfully aware of the promise he made to Father earlier. The same thing. He doesn’t know if he’s going to keep it this time. He  _ should _ . He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he  _ should _ . 

“See?” Grayson says to Drake. “No killing.”

“You can’t honestly think that is going to erase ten years of bloodlust.”

Damian feels his hands ball into fists. He’s hardly  _ eager  _ for blood. He merely knows when it should and shouldn’t be spilled, but if you were to ask Drake, the boy would characterize him as some insatiable animal. 

“Tim,  _ please  _ let me handle this,” Grayson says. Begging. Unbecoming.

Drake looks between Damian and Grayson and eventually huffs and struts off. Grayson visibly relaxes when he does, as if the child were such a source of stress for him. 

“I’m not happy,” Damian says. 

“I know,” Grayson says.

“I don’t like him.”

“I know.”

Damian decides  _ not  _ to elaborate on his dislike for Drake -- Grayson doesn’t need to know that Father seemed to view Drake as more of his  _ real  _ son than Damian  _ or  _ that the bloodlust comment got to him. Instead, he asks, “So what do you require?”

Grayson walks over to Father’s computer. He says, “This is where we run operations from. There are a  _ lot  _ of people currently in motion and that requires a  _ lot  _ of communications. It’s our comm-hub. Alfred normally -- ”

Damian cuts him off. “You want me to be your  _ secretary _ !” 

“You said that you were doubting our tactics -- ”

“ _ Communications manager _ hardly indicates it’d be a job for my skill set. Who  _ is  _ currently deploying your troops?”

Grayson grimaces slightly. “Oracle. You’ll -- ”

“Excellent. I can do Oracle’s job.”

“You really can’t.”

Who does Grayson think he is? Lying about needing his help, prostrating himself in front of an overly aggressive Drake?

“I’m leaving if you don’t explain what you need me for right now,” Damian says. He knows it’s a low blow, but he can tell that for some reason, Grayson wants him here, so this is the tactic most likely to get the answers he wants.

“Well, we can always use more people  _ in the field _ , but I’m not about to -- ”

“Excellent,” Damian says. “I’ll go in the field, then.”

Grayson takes a step towards him, hand out in concern. Damian knocks it down. 

“You’re  _ ten _ ,” Grayson says.

“You know I can fight.”

“I do, but that doesn’t mean I was about to ask you to put your life on the line.” 

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth again. Grayson is eliciting that reaction from him a  _ lot  _ lately. “I’ve put my life on the line plenty of times before, starting when I was  _ four _ . How is this supposed to be different?”

There’s a beat of silence and Grayson swallows. Damian can’t tell if he said the wrong thing. Sometimes, people outside the League react with horror to the most minor details. “Just because you  _ can _ do something doesn’t mean you  _ have  _ to do it,” he says finally.

Damian shrugs. “What’s the point of having a sword if you never unsheathe it?” He mentally kicks himself for the metaphor the instant it’s out of his mouth. It seems too much like something  _ Grandfather  _ would say -- in fact, he’s sure he’s  _ heard  _ almost those exact words before from his grandfather, who only ever viewed him as a weapon to wield or a shell to possess, never a person to love.

Grayson raises his hands up, as if in surrender. “I’m not going to stop you from going out, Damian,” he says. “I just wasn’t about to try to force you into it.”

“ _ Tt.  _ You wouldn’t be able to stop me from or force me into doing anything.”

“Okay. Do you have any gear?”

Damian hesitates, because  _ technically  _ he still has the prototype Robin armor Father gave him when they went to Gibraltar. It feels strange, he hasn’t put it on while he’s back in Gotham and he doesn’t know what it’d feel like now that Father’s dead. He also still has his League of Shadows uniform, though he doubts it would be a welcoming sight for the terrified civilians of Gotham -- if they can even recognize it.

“Of course I have gear,” he says eventually. “It’s back in Father’s apartment.”

“I’ll go get it,” Grayson says.

“But -- ” Damian adds. “I’m not sure how much of it will fit your specifications.”

“My… specifications?”

Damian grimaces. Does he have to  _ spell  _ this out, as if for an infant? “They’re  _ lethal weapons _ , Grayson.”

“Oh.”

Damian rolls his eyes. ‘Oh’. Idiot.

“Please tell me you know  _ how  _ to fight without killing people,” Grayson says. 

“Of course I do. I’ve sparred my mother multiple times and we’re both alive.”

Again, Grayson seems to let out a sigh of relief. Damian doesn’t understand the man. He seems tighter strung than one of Damian’s violins.

Grayson walks over to a cabinet and opens it. Inside, Damian sees scores of weapons, each non-lethal, of course, and most blunted. There are some escrima sticks, a bo, some tonfas and a set of nunchakus. That’s without getting into thrown weaponry - there is series of bat-themed boomerangs, some spiky sharp balls one could drop on the ground for their enemy to step on, grappling guns and what looks like a taser. Damian can feel his eyes bugging out of his head as he looks at them. It’s not as impressive as Grandfather’s weapons stash -- it’s hard to beat that when one of your requirements of weaponry is that it doesn’t kill people -- but he could still spend all day investigating it and never get bored. 

“All right,” Grayson says, gesturing at the cabinet. “Show me what you can do.”

 

***

 

It’s not fair, Damian thinks as he prowls through Gotham on patrol.

He  _ knows  _ it’s a childish thought, but he can’t help it. It’s not  _ fair  _ that he only got introduced to his father for him to be yanked away from him. For the last words the man had for him to be of disapproval, of indicating he never wanted anything to do with him after what he did to Drake. That he wouldn’t let him stay in his house.

It’s not even as if he can take comfort in the  _ other  _ half of his heritage at a moment like this, either, due to Grandfather’s plots. He can’t even be around Mother right now, not for her involvement in the plan -- she’d had no idea -- but for the pain of all the broken promises it brings. He is truly alone, and the disconcerting thought just makes him want to punch someone in the face.

Fortunately, Gotham is  _ full  _ of faces in need of punching. Once he’s geared up -- with simple black clothing, a grey cape and hood, a domino mask, and a utility belt full of sharpened boomerangs, smoke pellets and a grappling gun -- he sneaks out of the cave without the others. He knows that Grayson had told him to wait, that they’d go on patrol  _ together _ , but Damian doesn’t need the man to slow him down. Grayson saw what he could do in the practice rooms, that should easily alleviate any leftover cultural fears he has for ten-year-olds alone in combat situations. 

Pennyworth starts lecturing him over comms almost the instant Damian hits the street. Damian supposes that Grayson  _ wasn’t  _ lying about Pennyworth usually being in their comm center.

“Please return to the cave this instant,” Pennyworth says insistently in his ear. “You have  _ not  _ been cleared to operate alone.”

“I’ve operated alone before hundreds of times,” Damian says. “I went on my first mission alone when I was  _ four. _ ”

Which  _ technically  _ isn’t true -- later on, he’d found out that there had been League of Shadows assassins following him, ready to step in and save him, should he fail. But Pennyworth doesn’t need to know that, and it’s not as if the assassins had been required. 

“I would not suggest modelling our interactions on what the League of Shadows found acceptable.”

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth and scans the streets below him. He’s climbed up to a fairly high building in Gotham, and can now plan his next move carefully. There. He sees a gang of reprobates in clown makeup surrounding a man who’s crawling away from them, badly injured, and a young girl who can’t be older than four. The girl is whimpering in terror as the group approaches her, and Damian just thinks  _ finally _ . 

He begins rappelling down quickly and silently and when he gets low enough, lets go of his rope and prepares to kick the face of the first man there. His foot lands straight on the man’s nose with a satisfying  _ crunch _ , the man falls to the ground at an awkward angle, and the rest of the gang turns on him. Damian grins. He steps in, ducks under a club and kicks someone in the side of their knee. There’s a  _ pop _ , and he can remember enough of Mother’s medical instruction to know that their patella has probably dislocated, meniscus ruptured, and medial collateral ligament torn. His victim falls to the ground, yelling and cursing, and Damian relieves them of their club. Someone has  _ finally  _ fumbled for their gun, but they’re much too slow. Damian is in front of them in the blink of an eye. He grabs their wrist and turns it over one-hundred-eighty degrees so that their pinkie is in the air. Then he yanks  _ downwards _ , breaking their wrist as they fire wildly.

Since he’s attempting to abide the non-lethal rules, he ejects the magazine from the gun, rather than using it to easily dispatch his attackers, and makes do with the club. It’s heavier than his sword, more unwieldy, and he can’t be as quick as he can with his hands when he’s using it. But it sure is comforting to have a weapon in his hands, and each  _ thwuck  _ of the club against flesh seems to relieve him of a little bit more of his anger. 

After he’s disposed of the amateurs -- and they  _ are  _ amateurs, make no mistake -- he looks for the girl he was rescuing. She’s tugging on the injured man’s arm, trying to make him stand, and as Damian approaches her, she whimpers further.

Hmph. A little gratitude would be appreciated. 

“Daddy,” the girl says.

Damian narrows his eyes. 

The man slowly gets to his feet and surveys the situation. Unlike his daughter, he doesn't seem to be horrified by Damian’s violence. “Th -- thank you,” he stammers.

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. “You should be ashamed that you need a  _ child  _ to protect your daughter,” he says. “That should be  _ your  _ job.”

And with that, he retrieves a grapple gun from his belt and shoots it off, prepared to find the next threat.

“We need to talk,” Pennyworth says. “The cave’s street-cam links are showing you inflicted  _ serious  _ bodily harm on those men. I insist you control yourself immediately -- ”

Damian takes his comm out and crunches it underneath his boot. He didn’t kill anyone, what more did Pennyworth want? That he ask the attackers to please cease their violent behaviors? That he cordially invite them to a duel at dawn?

He’s sick of being constantly criticized and constantly judged by Father’s people -- and Father himself. He’s sick of them thinking he’s dangerous -- even though he  _ knows  _ he is, it’s never in a “dangerous, so I respect your talents” way, but rather a “dangerous, so you need to be controlled” way. It’s what  _ Father  _ meant when he’d told him so. When he refused to allow him alone with anyone after -- after what happened with  _ Drake _ . 

Damian runs across the rooftops, looking for something,  _ anything  _ to hit. Fortunately for him, but unfortunately for Gotham, the streets are chaotic enough right now that it doesn’t take long. Some armed men in suits, surrounding a car, demanding that the occupants ‘hand him over’ -- 

Damian lets his instincts take over. He dives down again, this time throwing two of the boomerangs at one man’s hand to make him drop his gun. He hits the ground and sweeps the man’s leg, knocking him off balance, and elbows him in the face on the way down.

The other combatants immediately focus on Damian and shoot, and Damian only jumps out of the way at the last instant.  _ Finally. A real challenge. _

Tires squeal as the car drives off, and one of the men aims at the car, trying to shoot out its wheels. Damian kicks the man in the back of the knee, throwing off his aim, and then punches him on the back of his head, right where his spinal cord connects to his skull, as he falls. The man grabs Damian by the arm and attempts to grapple him, but Damian convinces him to let go by stabbing him in the eye with a sharpened boomerang. The man screams.

Two down. Three to go. The remaining combatants are reluctant to fire at him again, though, since he’s still right next to the man he stabbed in the eye.

That’s hardly fair, is it?

Damian drops to the ground and rolls towards them. He feels a bullet hit the cement right behind his head, but now --

He’s in arms reach. He stands up with a stab to one’s lower gut. He makes sure to yank the sharpened batarang out right away and then punches his stab wound.

Click click of an aim, he leans out of the way and then --

He’s on the ground, sprawling from the impact of the bullet he couldn’t completely dodge. His arm is bleeding. Someone’s foot is on his back and they’re demanding he surrender. Damian laughs. Surrender? They never should have given him that chance. 

There are only two men remaining, so Damian’s confident he can take them out despite his  _ extremely  _ disadvantageous position. He tests his injured arm. Warm blood spills out, but it doesn’t  _ feel  _ any different to move. He must have just gotten grazed. 

“Disarm and surrender now!” says the man with his foot on his back and the gun. The other current survivor is saying, “Wait, that’s just a kid -- ”

Imbecile. Damian grabs his grappling gun and shoots the hook straight up at where he heard the man on his back’s voice. He’s quick enough the man didn’t get a shot off, but he still does roll to the side just in case.

And then there was one. Damian approaches the man, drinking in his fear. He’s not even holding his gun up anymore, he’s clearly either too scared or too unwilling to shoot a child. His misplaced morals are about to make this fight  _ very  _ easy.

“How much is he paying you?” the man asks. “Where are your parents?”

“Not here,” Damian says. He takes another step to the man, who doesn’t back up. He seems to be ready to face his imminent injury with honor, at least. 

If he were thinking more before he acted, the ‘how much is he paying you?’ comment might have disconcerted Damian, but he is most certainly _not_. He punches at the man’s stomach, but the man blocks and returns him a swift jab at his face. At where his face _would_ have been, had Damian not ducked. And while he’s ducked down, the man quickly knees straight up at Damian’s face, making him sprawl backwards and knocking him off his feet.

Damian frowns, rubbing his hand across his mouth to take off the blood. He let himself enter this fight on terms too favorable to his opponent. He shouldn’t have approached him so brazenly. He won’t make that mistake again. 

As the man approaches him, Damian ducks behind his legs and scrambles up his back until he’s resting on the man’s shoulders. A double open palmed strike over each of his ears should destabilize him, double hammerfist to each of his cheekbones should take the fight out of him, and just in case, Damian punches him on both temples. The man falls to the ground and Damian hops off him, content that he --

That he --

Stopped… whatever was happening here. 

He surveys the surroundings. Five men are groaning and trying to get their bearings, one is still attempting to remove Damian’s grapple from his face. Damian detaches the grapple and the man spits out blood and a couple teeth.

“You’re -- you’re so under arrest,” the man chokes out.

Damian scoffs. Under arrest? He’s not the criminal here.

The man reaches for his pocket, and Damian stomps on his wrist before he can withdraw a weapon. “G -- plain clothes GCPD,” the man says. 

Damian looks over the scene again to see if he missed anything, and he finishes reaching into the pocket the man was going for. In there is what  _ seems  _ to be a legit ID supporting his claims.

Shit.

Damian shoots his grapple hook up to the next skyscraper, trying to figure out where the car went. He was so eager to fight he hadn’t bothered figuring out who he should be fighting. He’s mentally kicking himself and just grateful that there was no one around to witness that -- well, other than the plainclothes police officers, but Damian is counting on not having to see them ever again. 

Fortunately, while the streets are full of chaos, looters, or gangs, they are devoid enough of traffic -- everyone must be staying  _ in  _ now that the worst elements are  _ out  _ \-- that Damian can easily catch eye of the car that got away. A four-door SUV, racing quickly towards the bridge.

Damian shoots his grappling hook into the roof and starts sliding down. As he comes down, he can see two terribly confused men with guns lean out the windows of the car. He grabs one of the boomerangs and throws it at one of their faces, then lands on the roof of the car. Just as he lands, a spray of bullets cuts through the roof, and he has to roll forwards to avoid being killed. He rolls to the front of the car and channels his momentum into a swift kick to the windshield, but it’s too strong for him to kick through. He just bruises his ankle and sees the driver’s eyes widen in concern and fear. 

The guy with the gun inside the car aims at Damian, as if he’s completely unaware of the fact that he might wind up hitting his own man. The idiot fires, and Damian jumps back up this time, to the car’s roof. Someone hits the breaks, the entire thing tips over starts sliding and Damian has to jump off and kill his momentum by flaring his cape, otherwise he would have been crushed between the roof of the car and a support on the bridge. 

Despite his jumping off, Damian still hits the ground badly and rolls. He rubs his head and sits up. His heads spinning, but he can tell he fared better than the car’s occupants -- they’re still moaning and groaning. 

Damian grabs a boomerang from his belt and prepares to dispatch whoever remains quickly. The instant one of the armed men sticks their face out the window, he stabs them. He takes care of the rest similarly -- with them shaken, it’s not difficult. Finally, the only occupant remaining in the car is child-sized and without weapons -- a boy around his age hiding under the dashboard. 

Damian reaches a hand in and the kid only shrinks further back. Why do all children seem to be afraid of him? He hasn’t hurt any children. If they weren't paying attention, he was  _ saving  _ them -- well, once he pointed himself in the right direction. “The police are looking for you,” Damian says. Technically, they’ve already found him once, but he’s not about to advertise accidently going off on the wrong guys. 

The kid  _ finally  _ grabs Damian’s hand, and Damian pulls him out of the car. Once he’s out, the kid seems to adhere to him as if by tape, wrapping his arms around Damian’s neck. The kid sniffles, and Damian grimaces in embarrassment for him. He can’t imagine being so defenseless, so childlike, at this age. 

“Don’t get snot on me,” Damian says as he shoots his grappling hook back up to retrace his steps and drop the kid off. Damian figures once he does this, he can just… sneak out and pretend that nothing happened, with everyone none the --

Crap. 

In the scene of his previous battle, there’s  _ Grayson _ , sniffing around the area in his Nightwing identity. He seems to be talking to one of the officers there. 

Damian lands and sets the kid down. Three of the police officers he fought draw guns on him (two of them were still too injured to stand) and Damian drops in a fighting stance the instant they do. The always-foolish Grayson steps between the guns and him, as if this is another situation he can defuse. 

“That kid assaulted us,” one of the men says -- the one who had been trying to talk Damian down in the end, before Damian knocked him out. “He almost got a kidnap victim  _ killed _ .”

“I’ll deal with it,” Grayson says. 

“You’ll  _ deal  _ with it? What are you doing running around with a kid, anyway?”

“No one needs to  _ deal with  _ me,” Damian snaps.

“D -- kid,” Grayson says, tripping over his name at first. Hmm. Damian _ really  _ needs a codename; he’s not going to accept being called ‘kid’ more than once. “Can you stop ‘helping’?”

“I thought you wanted my help.”

Grayson looks around, between Damian and the officers. He grabs Damian around the waist and shoots a grappling hook up and yanks them both off the ground in one swift motion.

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Damian asks as they land on top of a building.

“Getting us out of there because there was  _ no way  _ they were going they were going to let you go without arresting you. What were you  _ thinking _ ?”

Damian scowls. Another lecture from Father’s people. He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Damian, you could have killed someone,” Grayson says.

“As if I don’t know the difference between a killing stroke and a maiming stroke!” 

Grayson sighs. “I know what this is about, Damian. Alfred sent me after you because -- ”

“He was worried about my  _ victims _ ?” Damian says bitterly. 

“He’s worried about  _ you _ ,” Grayson says. “We all are. But that’s not why he sent me out. He found something he thinks you should see…”

Damian frowns. “This had better not be a waste of my time, Gra -- Nightwing.” 

“It’s not.”

“Shouldn’t we finish up patrol first?”

“It’s important.”

Of course it is. Damian wishes Grayson would just  _ tell  _ him what’s going on, so he doesn’t have to feel like he’s being kept in the dark. And his adrenaline is still high from the stress of the situation and the embarrassment of attacking the wrong men. He wants to get it out. And furthermore, he’s still not liking the idea of returning to Father’s people, to the cave and to Drake’s judgement. 

Still, Damian follows Grayson back to the cave. Inside, Pennyworth is standing beside a table with a plate of sandwiches -- this had  _ better  _ not have been for dinner. But as Damian approaches them, he can see there’s a small note in Pennyworth’s breast pocket, and Pennyworth takes it out of his pocket and holds it out to him. “Master Damian,” he says. “I was looking through Master Bruce’s personal effects, since I hardly had anything to do while you shut me out on comms -- ”

Damian refuses to look chagrined. If Pennyworth didn’t want to be hung up on, he shouldn’t have been a back-seat crime-fighter. 

“ -- And this seemed of particular interest for you.”

Damian snatches the paper from his hand. “You shouldn’t have been looking through my father’s private items,” he says, but still straightens out the paper avidly, ready to read it. It appears to be a letter, addressed to him.

_ Damian _ , 

_ Honor the Wayne name. Your actions define you and the family. Go to the locker beside mine and enter DWR1. _

__ _ You’ve earned this. _

__ _ Father. _

 

Damian turns the paper over, checking the back. “That’s it?” he asks. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“Where’s the rest of  _ what _ ?” Grayson asks.

“The letter!” 

Pennyworth and Grayson exchange a look that Damian has no clue what means. Damian scowls and trudges over to the locker, hoping that will clear things up. And inside --

Damian’s breath catches in his chest.

Inside is a Robin uniform. 

It’s not quite like the prototype gear, and nothing like Drake’s -- which is a relief. There’s a red sleeveless tunic that, when Damian touches, he can tell is thick and padded with a kevlar weave. Black pants and a black undershirt, green gloves and a yellow cape. Damian doesn’t even care that yellow is pretty much the worst color for a cape you could have, because his father had left it here for  _ him _ . Or more of, sometime, before his death, his father had decided to accept him. He didn’t think he was too dangerous or merciless or not fit to be in his household. 

Damian almost feels his entire body relax with relief.

And --  _ DWR1 _ . Of course. An inane password, anyone could guess it, but that’s not important. What matters is its  _ significance _ . DW. Damian Wayne. Honor the Wayne name. 

Damian resists the urge to grab the letter, the last thing he’ll ever receive from his father, close to his chest. Instead, he folds it up neatly and sticks it in his pocket and then reaches forwards and touches the Robin insignia. 

“Thank you, Father,” he says in a whisper, even though he knows his father can’t hear it. He glances over his shoulder. “And thank you, Pennyworth, for showing me this,” he says. He means it, too -- Pennyworth’s previous lecture seems to have completely faded away now that he knows his father was intending on welcoming him back.

He smiles.  _ Damian Wayne _ . He might as well try it out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, random decisions:
> 
> The reason I had Damian accidentally attack the wrong guys is because I figured that if you were just looking for a reason to fight, you might wind up reading the situation wrong. 
> 
> In case you're curious, the reference to Damian saving Alfred was from Batman RIP (though in my canon, he'd obviously have left Talia by that point). The references about Bruce not viewing Damian as his real son aren't from canon, they're just how I had him interpret the way Bruce talked about Tim (and talked to Damian) in Batman and Son Rewrite.


	3. Batman Imposter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick finally has taken up the mantle of Batman but refuses to live in the manor, for fear of replacing Bruce. Meanwhile, he feels like he has to juggle everyone's feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after Battle for the Cowl, which is only like... somewhat canonical for me, considering I think some characters act weird (and Damian's character still wasn't completely hammered out yet). Decisions for why I kept what I did will be explained at the end of the chapter.

Gotham’s finally had a bit of lull in the violence, and Dick is just wondering how he’s going to do this.

He’s accepted that Damian’s his responsibility -- seeing the kid shot in the chest made that perfectly clear, as much as he would’ve  _ liked  _ it to be otherwise. He felt like he was way too young to be watching out for a kid in any capacity other than cool older brother,  _ especially  _ a kid who’s as difficult to get along with as Damian. He was a great fighter, of course, and he knew it -- Dick’s not sure he’s ever heard the kid be humble about  _ anything _ . To make things worse, Dick feels like he’s constantly stuck in the middle between Damian and the kid he  _ actually  _ views as his younger brother -- Tim, who Damian tried to kill. Evidence in point:   
“ _ Robin _ ?!” Tim asks once he’s gotten back on his feet and seen Damian’s new costume -- fortunately, hung up in the locker and not  _ actually  _ on Damian at the moment. Dick’s pretty sure that if Tim came at Damian like this, he wouldn’t be able to stop a fight. 

“You made Damian  _ Robin _ ?!” Tim asks again. 

Dick sighs. He’s in the cave, in a Batman costume he feels doesn’t fit right at all with the cowl off, and Tim’s still in his regular clothes. He has no idea how to explain this to Tim -- no idea how to make him feel like he’s not being replaced. Dick never  _ wanted  _ to be the one doing the replacing -- he remembers how much it hurt to find out that Jason was Robin from the papers, and that was after he officially stopped being Robin. Tim never quit -- and Dick’s not about to make him -- but he has to come home to the guy who tried to kill him getting his name.

“Tim, I know this looks bad, but Damian needs this.”

“Remember when we thought Bruce was going to retire after Crisis?” Tim asks. “Batman and Robin was supposed to be  _ us _ . You and me. Not you and the psychopath that tried to kill me.”

“Tim, you’re not my sidekick, you’re my  _ partner _ \-- ” Dick takes a step towards Tim with his hand out, prepared to offer sympathy, but Tim shakes him off angrily.

“Obviously not!”

“And Damian  _ needs  _ me way more than you do. If we don’t keep an eye on him, he’s going to kill again.”

Tim scowls intensely. “That should  _ really  _ not be an endorsement for being Robin, Dick! He’s a  _ killer _ ! He belongs in jail!” Tim swallows a little and then lowers his voice out of shouting range. “Dick, he didn’t try to kill me because he for some reason thought it was the only way to stop me from doing something bad, as far as I can tell he just wanted to  _ replace  _ me. We’re talking about someone with absolutely no sense of right or wrong.”

“Of course he doesn’t have a sense of right or wrong. He’s a  _ ten-year-old child  _ who was raised as an assassin from birth!”

“Lots of our villains have really sad or sympathetic reasons for doing crime, that doesn’t mean we team up with them.”

“Are you serious?” Dick asks. “This isn’t the same, Tim.”

“How not?”

Dick sighs. He  _ really  _ doesn’t want to try to explain it -- he figures the whole  _ adult  _ vs  _ child  _ thing is the best he can do. Instead, he just says,  “Look, Tim, I want you to still be around and I want your help, but I can’t ‘fire’ Damian. Things are precarious enough as they are, I can’t just yank this out from under his feet right after we got him to calm down.” We, in this case, being Alfred and Dick. Alfred was the one who forged Bruce’s letter, telling Damian that Bruce had wanted him to be Robin. It feels like a heel move, but as far as Dick could tell, it was the  _ only  _ way to get Damian to wind down and stop taking out his frustrations on Gotham’s nightlife.

… Okay, so maybe Tim did have a point about the Robin thing. But Dick at least wants to try. 

Tim scowls. “I know you care more about the guy who tried to kill me than you do me. I’m going to go find Bruce.  _ Alone _ , if I have to.”

Tim stomps out of the cave before Dick can even ask him why he thinks Bruce is alive -- he’s heard some of Tim’s logic, but it never quite connected, never made sense. It really just seemed like he was deep in denial. Dick wants Tim to stop wasting his time and face reality; he’s worried it’s really unhealthy. But he also figures everyone deals with grief at their own pace. He can’t really talk Tim down, especially with him being stuck between Tim and Damian.

Over the intercoms, Alfred’s voice calls out: “Master Dick, Master Damian woke up a bit ago. He’s feeling well enough to walk, and, well -- he’s not happy.”

Dick groans. Of course.

Both Tim and Damian had wound up pretty badly during the chaos that gripped Gotham in the rumors of Batman’s death. As his new and not-improved version of Batman, Jason had tried to kill them  _ both _ , which Dick is way less than pleased about. He’d been kind of hoping that they could talk Jason down, but this seems like a line he doesn’t know if Jason can ever un-cross. He shot a ten year old in the chest.

Damian stomps down the stairs to the batcave, keeping his right arm mostly still and swinging only his left arm in his stride.  He’s still in his pajama pants and has his chest covered in bandages from the surgery. Alfred had said the primary damage was blood loss and a punctured lung (okay, as someone with medical training he actually said  _ traumatic pneumothorax _ , but Dick knew what he meant) and given Damian a minimum of 4 weeks recovery time before he can put on the costume again. Time to see if that’s something Damian intends on abiding. 

“Where’s that stupid Batman imposter?” Damian asks. “I want to kill him.” He looks Dick over once he sees him mostly in Batman’s uniform and then says, “Oh, so now  _ you’re  _ a Batman imposter.”

“Someone has to step up and convince Gotham things can get back to normal,” Dick says. “And serial killer Batman wasn’t going to cut it. Also, you can’t kill people.”

“I won’t have to if you took care of it. Did you take care of it?”

Dick sighs. “By ‘took care of it’ do you mean ‘did I kill him’?”

“Obviously.”

“Of course not.” Then, Dick adds, “Alfred wants you out of the field for four weeks.” He figures he might as well break the news now. He can’t really see things getting worse, anyway.

“That’s preposterous!” At the shout, Damian coughs. He rubs his chest quickly and then glowers at Dick when he sees him staring at him.

“Damian, you could have  _ died _ .”

“I didn’t.”

Jeez, doesn’t this kid have any sense of his own mortality? Though, Dick supposes, growing up around Lazarus Pits and a centuries old grandfather might make that impossible. 

“I’m not a fool, Grayson, I know I’m not capable of healing instantaneously. I’ll take a break for one week,” he offers, like it’s a huge concession on his part.

“Four weeks,” Dick says.

“What about you?” Damian asks. “Didn’t you get injured?”

“Not as badly.”

“Are you taking a break?”   
“Someone needs to convince Gotham that Batman’s not dead,” Dick says. Also, he doesn’t  _ want  _ to take a break. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to be alone with his thoughts.

“ _ Tt.  _ Then I don’t need one either. I’m younger. I heal faster.”

Dick actually has no clue whether that’s true, because he’s not a doctor, but he knows that people usually  _ say  _ kids heal faster. 

Dick swings his arms a little, trying to feel them out. They’re still stiff, and as they move, a jolt of pain shoots through him. Even when he’s not moving, his shoulder is still sore. He knows that he might get injured going into the field like this and that it’s not a smart decision -- last time he went into the field while still healing, he wound up blowing his secret identity to Blockbuster.

He decides that at least if he’s going into the field, he won’t tell Barbara and Alfred about it. Okay, so that’s probably not the smartest of his plans.

“I’ll take a week long break with you,” Dick concedes. “And we can see how fast you’re healing. How are you doing? Are you in any pain?”

Damian scowls. “Don’t try to be my mother, Grayson,” he says, neatly stepping around the question. 

Dick sighs a little. He figures that while they’re both on bed-rest duty, though, he can try to figure out how to set things up so they can operate effectively once they get a clean bill of health.

“How do you feel about not living in the manor?” Dick asks.

“Kicking me out already?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t be living here either,” Dick says. It’s true. He’d rather not feel like he’s living in all of Bruce’s old places, wearing Bruce’s old costume… replacing him, essentially. He needs a place he can clear his head.

“Where  _ would  _ you live then?” Damian asks skeptically.

Dick shrugs. “The penthouse, maybe. Bruce already made a bunker nearby, so we could operate out of there pretty easily.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “Why do you keep saying ‘we’?”

_ Because you are ten and not ready to live on your own _ . But Dick just says, “Well, you’re Robin now, right? That means you’re pretty much obligated to team up with Batman.”

“ _ Batman  _ isn’t here, Grayson. He never will be again, no matter how much you play dress-up.”

Charming kid. Like Dick didn’t already know that. 

“You know I operate effectively alone, right?” Damian continues. “I don’t need to be hand-held and babysat like all of Father’s previous partners.”

Dick figures that it’d be a jerk move to remind Damian he just almost died and therefore  _ really  _ shouldn’t be on his own. Instead, he says, “Well,  _ Alfred _ ’s staying with me, so unless you want to get all your food and clean the house by yourself, you have to put up with me.”

“ _ Tt _ . I don’t need a servant. I’ll just eat at restaurants.”

“On who’s money?”

“In the event of his death, my father’s assets should have transferred to me. His  _ blood  _ son.”

_ Oh boy _ . Dick rubs his face. “Does this have to be a thing, Damian? No one’s doubting your capacity to take care of yourself but I think it’d  _ really  _ be easier if we were operating out of the same building. “

A long silence on Damian’s part. “ _ Fine _ ,” he says eventually. “I’ll allow you to stay at my penthouse.”

_ My penthouse. Of course _ . But Dick takes it. “All right,” he says. “Let’s move in.”

 

***

 

Dick doesn’t have enough stuff for moving to be a really taxing ordeal. The penthouse is already furnished, and none of the stuff he cares about is furniture, so he’s not taking any from any previous place of residence. All of the clothes he wears can fit into one bag, which is light enough he can carry it even when his shoulder is messed up. And Damian still had whatever he was using at the penthouse. The “move” is pretty much a car ride over. As far as Dick can tell, Alfred’s the one with the most stuff to take -- he wants a bookshelf and some boxes of books moved in. The boxes are crammed on the trunk and the bookcase is tied to the roof.

Still, possibly out of tradition, some of his friends volunteered to help him. Barbara, her father, and Cassandra Cain are waiting on the top floor of the building, right outside the door, with housewarming gifts for Dick, Damian, and Alfred.

“Dick,” Commissioner Gordon says, and Dick just thinks that if he and Babs ever  _ do  _ get married, he’s  _ really  _ going to have to stop thinking of Gordon as predominantly “Commissioner”. “It’s good to see you again. Who’s that you’ve got with you? Did Bruce adopt another kid?”

Dick shakes his head. “Babs, Cass, Commissioner, I’d like you all to meet the newest addition to the family: Damian, Bruce’s biological son.”

Damian seems to nod in approval as Dick introduces him as “Bruce’s biological son.”

Gordon raises an eyebrow and Dick hopes he doesn’t ask why he’s just now meeting Damian, despite the fact that he’s ten years old. Dick just skips past the potential questions and says, “Damian, this is Barbara, my -- ” crap, what does he say? Childhood friend? Confidante? Fiancee? Girlfriend? “My, um…”

“I’m the person who bails Dick out of all the trouble he invariably winds up in,” Barbara says, and Dick is just relieved that she took over. She holds a hand out to Damian and says, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Damian looks at her hand skeptically. “Of course,” he says, shaking her hand gently, and Dick breathes a sigh of relief that it’s going smoothly.

“And that’s Commissioner Gordon, Barbara’s father,” Dick says (and Damian shakes his hand politely as well). 

“Please, Dick, out of the office it’s Jim,” Gordon says.

“Jim,” Dick repeats a little awkwardly.

Dick keeps introducing people: “And Cassandra, one of your adopted siblings.” 

Damian, however, does  _ not  _ shake Cass’s hand when she holds it out. He merely looks her up and down skeptically.

Babs holds a hand out to take Dick’s bag, and Dick lets her. He starts unlocking the penthouse, which  _ thankfully _ , Alfred cleaned since the last time Damian was here and put in an order to fix the window. Dick doesn’t have to explain away the mess or the fact that it looks like it was broken into. Cass goes down to the car with Alfred, to help him with his books, and Dick is about to follow them out when Barbara stops him. “Aren’t you resting your shoulder?” she asks.

Dick laughs a little awkwardly. To explain the situation to Gordon, he says, “I slipped flipping over the bannister yesterday. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Gordon smiles. “Please, Dick, you’re twenty-eight. Don’t make those of us who are  _ actually  _ middle aged feel old.”

Dick returns his smile. He’s just glad things seem to be getting along somewhat normal. That is, until Damian leans up on his toes and whispers not as quietly as he was intending to, “What’s wrong with Barbara?”

“Do you have a question, Damian?” Barbara asks.

Whereas someone else might be embarrassed at being overheard asking that, Damian just asks directly to Barbara’s face, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Damian, there’s nothing  _ wrong  _ with Barbara -- ” Dick starts, but Babs cuts him off.

“Well, Damian, I have low levels of eumelanin and high levels of pheomelanin, due to a recessive gene on chromosome sixteen. That makes my hair red, say, instead of black like yours or Dick’s.”

“I meant why do you have that chair.”

Barbara narrows her eyes. “I know what you meant. I was giving you the opportunity to duck out with your dignity intact.” 

Commissioner Gordon kind of shifts a little awkwardly. Dick has no clue whether he’s supposed to jump in and tell Damian he’s being a jerk, or if Babs wants to handle this herself.

Whatever’s going on is going straight over Damian’s head. He asks, “Why would this be impinging on my dignity?”

Barbara raises an eyebrow and looks at Dick. Right, that’s his cue. “You’re asking a kind of private question, Damian,” he says. “You can’t just expect people to volunteer information about why they’re existing in a manner that’s slightly different from everyone else.” 

Damian looks between Dick and Barbara. “Fine,” he says. 

_ Okay _ , Dick thinks,  _ problem number  _ one  _ resolved _ . 

Cass and Alfred arrive in with boxes number one and two of books. 

“I’ll help,” Dick says, even though Babs already tried to get him not to. He really doesn’t like just doing nothing, and it’d be an escape from the awkwardness in the room.

“You’ve injured your shoulder with childish antics,” Damian says. “I’ll do it.”

Dick internally groans. Damian must know that Dick can’t tell him not to because of his injury, because it’d look really suspicious if  _ both  _ of them were out of commission. “Be careful, kiddo,” he says. He really  _ hopes  _ these boxes are under twenty pounds -- though maybe kids who have surgery get a different, lower weight limit for lifting.

“Don’t call me kiddo or I’ll punch your face in,” Damian says, and leaves with Cass and Alfred.

Gordon gives Dick a look. “Charming kid,” he says. 

“He, um, had a rough childhood,” Dick says, because he figures they can at least be open about that much. There’s no way that Gordon is going to be fooled into thinking Damian’s a normal kid. “Bruce wasn’t even aware he existed until just a little bit ago,” Dick adds, just to pre-empt any questions.

“That sounds irresponsible of his mother,” Gordon says. “Who was she, by the way?”

“One of Bruce’s flings. She didn’t live in Gotham, you wouldn’t know her.” Dick  _ knows  _ Gordon is going to be suspicious by the lack of name, but he really doesn’t want to construct a fake identity for Talia that will probably clash with whatever Damian says anyway. “How you doing?” he asks Babs.

Barbara laughs a little. “If you think Damian’s insensitive questions got to me, Dick, you don’t know me that well. Heck, I’m just glad that this time it was a poorly socialized ten-year-old, instead of a reasonable adult -- and before you ask,  _ yes _ , regular adults have asked me that question, or variants of it.”

Dick’s not sure how to respond to that, so he just asks, “How’s Cass doing?” 

“Ask her yourself, when she gets back up.”

“So, since the others are out, I figured this might be a good time to ask,” Gordon says. “Are you two still engaged?”

Dick and Barbara look awkwardly between each other.

“Of course, I told my dad when you proposed,” Babs explains. “I was excited.”

“Right, yeah, I can’t fault you for that.” Dick rubs the back of his neck. One moment dealing with ten-year-old assassins, the next, dealing with awkward problems that most people his age have, like pleasing potential in-laws.  “Um, things got kind of put ‘on pause’ during that crisis thing…” he’s waiting for Babs to take over.  _ She  _ should know how much she wants her dad to know.

“I had a  _ lot  _ of Birds stuff to do,” Barbara says. “Pretty much every hero was deployed. I didn’t want Dick putting his life on hold for it.”

Dick knows that Gordon knows both about Babs’s previous tenure as Batgirl and her work as Oracle -- which he’s pretty sure she only told him because the latter was about to bite her in the butt if he didn’t know, but still. 

“Dick knows?” Gordon asks.

“It’d be really irresponsible to think of getting married without telling him,” she says.

Dick smiles a little. He supposes, since  _ his  _ secret identity isn’t blown in front of Gordon, he can just be the handsome civilian boyfriend who’s in awe of how awesome his girlfriend is.

…  _ Okay _ , so that doesn’t require any acting at all, but whatever.

Dick’s just waiting for Cass, Alfred, and Damian to come back up and save him from more potential in-law or superhero questions. 

“We’re, um… things are good,” Dick says. Which is a lie. He feels like it’d be a jerk move to get married right in the wake of Bruce’s death, but he can’t  _ tell  _ anyone that. Because it’s a secret. 

Gordon chuckles a little. “All right, I’ll ease off on the interrogation,” he says. “It really is good to see you, again, though. Have you seen Barbara’s house warming gift?”

Dick shakes his head and walks over to the table where she set it. “It’s an alarm,” Barbara explains as he’s looking at it. “The same one I use on my places. It should detect both regular burglars or people who trip motion alarms  _ and  _ radiation associated with boom tubes or some other rare forms of transportation. And the laser that detects motion functions on both an optical and infrared level.”

“It’s really thoughtful,” Dick says. “Thanks.”

“What’s thoughtful?” Damian asks as he bursts into the room with a box of books. He sets it down on the floor and meanders over to Dick. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead he’s breathing a little heavily. He braces a hand against the counter, squeezes his eyes shut, and coughs a couple times.

_ I could have told you that would happen _ , Dick thinks. He’s just hoping the poor kid didn’t pull any stitches. 

“Babs’s housewarming gift,” Dick says. 

Damian nods a little and rubs his chest. He still seems to be breathing a little hard and his right arm and entire right side of chest are still held a little awkwardly, a little stiffly. 

“You okay, kid?” Gordon asks.

“Of course I’m okay. I am the paragon of physical health.”

Sometime, Dick’s going to have to teach Damian about suspiciously specific denial. 

Damian coughs again and winces with the cough, and Alfred and Cass arrive, each of them carrying one side of the bookcase. Alfred sets it up near the window and starts unpacking his books. Dick resolves to ask Cass how she’s doing when they’re alone -- he figures she wouldn’t appreciate being ambushed or expected to articulate her feelings in front of people she doesn’t know very well, especially when she’s not even allowed to say that Bruce is dead.

“I figure pizza’s in order,” Dick says. “What do you guys want? Pineapple?”

“I don’t care,” Damian says. “But no anchovies.”

Dick is halfway surprised that the League of Shadows had enough pizza for Damian to have formed an opinion on it, but he guesses even evil assassins want to just get delivery sometimes.

“No pineapple,” Cass says. 

Dick frowns. “Okay, so we know what we  _ don’t  _ want on pizza.”

Eventually, of course, everyone comes to an agreement (one cheese, one the works) and settles down. Cass excuses herself halfway through dinner, before Dick can get a chance to say anything, but everyone else stays through to the end. Babs helps Dick set up the security system and Damian watches intently. Dick has no clue  _ why _ , but he does. Alfred finishes bringing in the last thing he brought from the manor, which were some paints and art supplies he said he’d bought last time Damian was here. That kind of surprised Dick. He didn’t really see Damian as an artistic soul. 

Finally, Commissioner Gordon and Barbara leave and Dick can get to sleep on time for once in the past couple weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this will be a heavily noted chapter, so first Battle for the Cowl notes, then misc notes.
> 
> I wound up keeping the large events of Battle for the Cowl because a) I didn't know how else to do it and b) this is more of a "happening at the same time" rather than a rewrite. I am unsure how controversial including Jason trying to kill Damian and Tim will be (which he did in Battle for the Cowl) because Prime Earth Red Hood and New Earth Red Hood seem *very* different. My logic for including it comes from me asking my friend what he thought about it, and he mentioned that he's not sure that Dick would ever want anything to do with Jason if he tried to kill Tim and Damian. Which made *me* think there might be a story (perhaps very later on) where we actually see the characters sort of dealing with the consequences of his actions, which I always find more interesting than bad actions just being brushed over. Assuming the actions are in character -- I have no clue if they are because the continuity between New Earth and Prime Earth Jason was very confusing for me. My interpretation for his character in New Earth is then along "the ends justify the means".
> 
> I also wanted to show some of the characters dealing with the consequences of being injured, and figured it might be a way for them to slow down and have some civilian interactions before jumping straight into combat. And I had surgery the *day* of posting this, so I re-wrote some bits to make their reactions more realistic. Lucky (?) timing on my surgery there. 
> 
> Including Damian asking "what's wrong with Barbara?" as based both on a Damian fan blog post I saw where someone pointed out physically disabled people probably are not common in the League, and also my own experiences where adults I've never met just walk up to me and ask "What's wrong with your legs?" or some other commentary on my body for being in a wheelchair. 
> 
> I'm kind of sad I didn't get dialogue for Alfred and Cass here, but I figure they'll get dialogue later.


	4. No public school

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian tries to get settled in his new home, Dick and Alfred want him to do school.

_ Dear Mother, _

__ _ I’m writing this letter to let you know what’s going on. I know you must be lonely right now.  _

__ _ Father is dead. I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumors, but they’re true. I’m sorry if this is how you had to find out. _

__ _ I did some reconnoitering around Gotham independently, but now I’m living with Richard Grayson,  one of Father’s lackies. He’s strange. I know he wants me around for some reason, but I’ve yet to find out why. He claimed to want my help but then expressed reticence at sending me out into the field due to my age. He can’t keep me out of the field now, though. We found a letter from Father. He wanted me to be Robin. I’m sure you understand. I have to stay here. I have to see this through.  _

__ _ What are you doing to occupy your time? I know it must be different than vigilantism. _

_ Love, _

_ Damian _

 

Damian frowns at his letter. It seems too short, too formal, to please his mother, but he can’t think of anything else to include that wouldn’t embarrass him or worry her. He certainly can’t tell her about getting shot in the chest, neither does he feel like getting into the strange emotions that come with this new place, like his resentfulness over being called bloodthirsty. Nor does he want to reminisce about the past or ask her any questions pertaining to the League of Shadows or Grandfather. It seems as if the only safe conversation is surface level.

It’s probably just as well, of course. He doesn’t even know Mother’s current address, if she stayed where she was when he left or not. It would have been smart to set up new phones or emails after they left the League, but they didn’t. Mother hadn’t known how soon Damian was intending on leaving (he did sneak out without telling her), and of course Damian wasn’t thinking of anything practical like that with his head where it was. Getting back in contact with Mother will be difficult -- she knows he’s in Gotham, but he doesn’t know where she is. It will have to be on her terms. That makes him frown. 

Damian does the breathing exercises Pennyworth prescribed him. His chest protests and he scowls. He never should have let himself get shot. 

Pennyworth and Grayson are already at the countertop eating breakfast when Damian finally gets out of his room.  _ Tch _ . “His room”. Grayson had kicked him out of the master bedroom when they moved in, which Damian didn’t really  _ care  _ about because it’s hardly as if he was using the entire thing, but still. It felt as if Grayson was trying to establish himself as the dominant presence in the house. 

Pennyworth has prepared strawberry crepes and serves Damian up a plate when he enters.

“You know, I actually feel  _ really  _ good,” Grayson is saying. “I think I slept eight entire hours last night. Do you know the last time I slept eight whole hours?”

“I can’t say I do,” Pennyworth says.

“It was probably grade school.”

Damian rolls his eyes and Grayson’s whininess. “If superheroics cutting into your sleep schedule bothers you so much, I can carry on without you.”

“Hey, I manage fine. I’m just saying. You didn’t appreciate getting a full night's sleep?”

Damian scowls, because he  _ did _ . But that’s not his fault. He probably needed more sleep than usual due to the temporarily hindered function of his lungs making him more tired. Whereas Grayson has no such excuse.

“I figured that since we have a mandatory day off,” Pennyworth says, “We can talk about getting Master Damian enrolled in school.”

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I’m lightyears ahead of any grade school child, Pennyworth. It’d be pointless.”

“It might be nice to interact with other kids your age,” Grayson suggests.

Damian glowers at the man until he raises his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, no public school,” Grayson says.

“But as your legal guardians, it does fall on us to provide you with an education,” Pennyworth says. “What sort of education did you have previously?”

“My mother and grandfather made sure I was equally skilled in letters, arts,  _ and  _ personal combat,” Damian says. “Besides, I hardly see what you’ll be able to do.” It’s not as if Pennyworth and Grayson are specialists in any subject Damian was training on, and they hardly seem like the type to kidnap specialists and force them to work for them.

Or, Damian supposes, they could just  _ hire  _ someone.

“I’ll look into procuring some standardized tests so we know where to start,” Pennyworth says. 

Damian frowns. He dislikes this. Grayson had approached him with the idea that he needed Damian’s help, but now it seems as if he wants to force Damian into some child-like role he never consented to being in. “What makes you think  _ you  _ have anything to teach  _ me? _ ” he asks. 

“Master Damian, I think you’ll find that you’ll learn a lot if you keep an open mind,” Pennyworth says. 

“Alfred’s a great surgeon,” Grayson adds. “Not like… I think we should be teaching a ten-year-old surgery…”

Damian scoffs. “My mother taught me some basic medicine. And besides, why would surgery be any more inappropriate for a ten-year-old than combat?”

“He has a point,” Pennyworth says.

Grayson shrugs. “Okay, true. But my point is, Damian, that you shouldn’t be writing us off yet.”

Damian sighs. “And are  _ you  _ subjecting yourself to these inane standardized tests with me?”

“Why? If I do will you actually do them?”

It’s never occured to Damian that he had the power to make Grayson subject himself to humiliating, childish endeavors. Not as if  _ learning  _ is childish, but this was clearly contextualized as something a legal guardian would do for a child. “Yes,” Damian says.

“I guess I’m doing them, then.”

Hmm, that was too easy. Less than satisfactory.

“And if I score higher than you, I don’t have to subject myself to your pitiful schooling,” Damian says, even though he knows it’s a bad idea as he says it. He shouldn’t be allowing his mind to atrophy up here. “Or I at least get to choose the topics I’ll be studying,” he adds.

“We were going to let you choose the topics anyway, Damian,” Grayson says. He looks at Pennyworth. “Right?”

“Of course. I can hardly imagine it’d be enjoyable -- for any of us -- if we didn’t.”

Damian narrows his eyes a little. He distrusts this general situation. It seems  _ too  _ easy. He’d never had a choice in his education before -- it’d all been to prepare him to rule the world -- even the arts part. He was supposed to immerse himself completely in every discipline to have a truly honed mind. To show that there is  _ nothing  _ he can’t achieve when his mind and body work in tandem. 

Of course, Damian couldn’t learn literally  _ every  _ subject. His sciences concentrated in economics (the reason that is useful for ruling the world should be self-evident), chemistry (for chemical warfare and poisons), some technology, and geology -- though his education was slightly incomplete on that last one due to some fatal mishap with his teacher. Likewise, his arts were concentrated in drawing, painting, and the violin, as well as literary texts from the canons Ra’s and Mother considered important.

Now that he has the freedom to  _ choose  _ what to learn, of course, he has no clue what to pick. It’d be very easy to stick with what he’s already good at -- but he’d be stagnating. 

“So, kiddo, what are you thinking of?” Grayson asks. “For school?”

“Don’t call me ‘kiddo’. And I’m not sure. What do children learn where you’re from?”

Grayson starts listing things off. “Well, there’s math -- ”

“I already excel in mathematics.”

“PE -- Physical education --”

“Covered in our training, no doubt.”

“English -- ”

“I’m already perfectly fluent in English.”

“I mean like literature and stuff.”

“ _ Tt.  _ In that case it might have some merit.”

Grayson continues listing off the activities and Pennyworth starts searching the internet for how to get standardized tests. Damian frowns a little, still unsure if these two aren’t trying to turn him into something he’s not, but he figures he has to have  _ something  _ to do during the day, so he acquiesces. 

“You know,” Grayson says eventually. “If we’re getting serious into this school thing, there’s a school in Star City you might like. Black Canary was telling me about it.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “You said I wouldn’t be forced to mingle with regular children.”

“Yeah, but it’s not  _ for  _ regular kids. It’s for kids who have… um, violent backgrounds.”

Damian’s getting sick of the rest of Father’s people acting like there’s something more violent or wrong with him than them. It’s not as if they don’t know how to fight as well. “It sounds incredibly safe,” he says.

“It’s so they can have people who might relate to the same situation or know what they’re going through. You know,  _ peers _ . And they have specialized teachers and social workers, I think…”

“That sounds nice for  _ them _ ,” Damian says. 

Grayson gets the hint, finally. “Okay,” he says. “It was just a thought.”

“Besides, you need me here in Gotham. I can’t fight crime while commuting from across the country.”

“That’s true,” Grayson says. “It was just a thought, like I said.”

“In the future, keep such thoughts to yourself.” Damian knows he’s being rude. He knows he wouldn’t be able to get away with talking to Grandfather or probably even Mother the same way. But Mother never acted like there was something wrong with him, like all of Father’s people do. In her eyes, he was perfect.

…

He misses her.

He knows it’s his own fault, he was the one who decided to leave and come to Gotham. It would have been easy, comforting, to just stay with her and let her try to solve all his problems, which it seemed like she was trying to do, seeing as how overprotective she was becoming at the end of their confrontation with Gr -- Ra’s. But he wouldn’t really be worthy of being her son if he did that. He’d just be a common child, crying for his mother. 

He sighs. Perhaps tonight, he’ll try to find out how to track her down. He doesn’t need to  _ see  _ her, but he can at least send his letter.

 

***

 

“Do you have a birth certificate?” is the first thing Grayson bothers Damian with the after their standardized tests. Pennyworth had suggested a walk in the park to clear their heads, and Damian had gotten dragged into it. 

First, Grayson wanted to keep him out of the field. Then it was school tests. Now this? Will the litany of tests ever end?

“How does one obtain a birth certificate?” Damian asks. 

“Well, like normally you get them when you’re born and then there’s a thing you can do to ask for a copy later. Where were you born?”

“On Al Ghul island.”

“So… no birth certificate then?” 

Damian scoffs. “What is this even for, Grayson?”

“Well, we need to be able to prove you’re not just a random kid we kidnapped off the street if we’re looking into getting custody of you legally.”

“ _ Tt.  _ So don’t do it legally.”

Grayson and Pennyworth exchange a look. 

“These are our civilian identities, Damian. We have to play by the books.” 

Damian doesn’t like that. The idea of a civilian identity seems anathema to him, anyway. You can’t become a civilian just by taking off your costume. Neither Ra’s nor Mother felt the need to prance around in an office for eight hours a day or trick the world into thinking they were more harmless than they actually are. To him, a “civilian identity” seemed pretty synonymous with a cover identity an assassin might take to get close to a target. He doesn’t know why Grayson and Father are obsessed with it. 

“Well I doubt Mother bothered getting some inane paperwork done,” Damian says. “So I guess I don’t have one.”

“Does your mother have a secret identity?” Grayson asks. “Something we can call her that’s not -- you know.” 

Damian shrugs. He knows that Mother’s probably used many aliases while on missions, but it’s hardly as if she debriefed him on every single one -- or which one was the most significant to her. 

“What’s it matter, anyway?” he asks.

“Alfred did some research.”

“Yes,” Pennyworth says. “If your parents don’t contest custody, we should be able to solve this out of court, which hopefully means we can avoid scrutinization. But that would require your mother not being a famous assassin.”

This entire exercise seems futile. “We’ll be lying no matter what,” Damian says. “Just forge documentation or whatever and don’t bother me with it.”

Damian doesn’t even know why paperwork needs to be involved.  _ He  _ knows he’s his father’s son and  _ he  _ decided to live with Grayson and Pennyworth. Shouldn’t that be enough?

“Okay, you don’t have to be involved in the paperwork stuff,” Grayson says. “We can do it without you. I had no clue what was going on with the red-tape side of things when Bruce was fostering me.”

Damian hopes that Grayson knows it’s not as if he  _ can’t  _ learn about what’s going on there, he’s just  _ uninterested _ . 

If Father were here, this would be so much more simple. They could just get a test and prove that he’s Father’s  _ real  _ son. Now, he’s halfway worried that no one will believe him. Father seems to have a reputation in his public identity, what if people just think that he wants his money? (As if Damian would ever lower himself to pretending to be someone else’s son). It’s not as if Father is around, but Damian’s gathered that for some reason, Grayson and Pennyworth are hiding his death from the public’s eye.  _ Batman _ ’s death makes sense to hide. He has his share of enemies and the underworld fears him. But that doesn’t apply to Bruce Wayne.

Damian sighs. At least the fresh air seems to be doing him some good. Already, it’s getting easier to fully expand his lungs and take deep breaths. 

Damian tugs a little at his suit jacket. It’s feeling itchy, constraining, on the walk. 

“You know,” Grayson says, clearly taking notice. “You don’t  _ have  _ to wear that suit all the time. We’re just going to the park.”

“This is how my father dressed, Grayson. It’s good enough for me.” It doesn’t help that he left behind most of the clothing he wore day-to-day when he and Mother were forced to pack up and flee the League of Shadows. They’d brought combat equipment and gear to blend in, not what they actually liked wearing.

“You can’t fight as well in it.”   
“A superior combatant can fight in any article of clothing,” Damian says, despite the fact that he  _ hasn’t  _ tried fighting in the suit yet. He could still do it.

“And there  _ is  _ nothing wrong with suits,” Pennyworth says, straightening the lapels on his own jacket. “I quite like them myself.”

In fact, Grayson is the only one on the walk dressed casually -- a T-shirt and jeans. It makes him look odd.

“I guess it is the unofficial Wayne uniform,” Grayson says. “At least -- the only one you can wear out in public.”

A Batman reference. Cute. And here Damian thought Grayson was terrified about anyone finding out about their hidden, more competent, superheroic identities. 

Heroic still feels like a strange word to apply to himself, even if only as an addendum to “super”. It’s not as if he ever thought of himself as especially villainous or  _ anti _ -heroic, except in passing after meeting his father, but he was aware enough of the outside world to know that he and his family were  _ perceived  _ as such. Very few other people agreed with Ra’s Al Ghul’s methods for saving the world, and Damian can’t even bring himself to think that saving the world was his grandfather's plan all along anymore. 

Damian frowns at the thought. He breathes deeply again, trying to figure out how soon he can get back into the field. All this sitting around isn’t doing him any good. He’d already been bored out of his mind while investigating Gotham after leaving his mother -- he did what he could to see what his father was up to or scout out the city, but that still left large swatches of the day with nothing to do. For the first time in his life, he had been without tutors, without troops to command, without family, and without missions and somewhat taxing schedule dedicated to making him a perfect heir. He’d realized he had no clue what to  _ do  _ with his time outside of all that training and killing. It makes him realize there is one the small mercy of Grayson insisting on accompanying him to the penthouse and setting up this school thing: he can now get back some semblance of normal after over a month of chaos.

He doesn’t say that of course, and neither does he thank them for it. He just decides to be quiet for the rest of the walk, to see how it goes. To enjoy a little bit of peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of feels like not much happened in it, but part of my regrets in my Batman and Son rewrite was the characters not having any downtime (or hardly any). So I really wanted everyone a chance to just have down time (and also so we can see the characters when they're *not* fighting).
> 
> I also figure we might as well fill in some details we didn't see in canon (IIRC) like Damian getting set up at school. He's home-schooled, like he was until Supersons (to the best of my knowledge). 
> 
> And random trivia: the school Dick mentions that Black Canary was talking about happened in a Black Canary miniseries where Black Canary had adopted Sin (the girl who was being raised to be the next Lady Shiva).


	5. Be "Nice"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian settles into a home schooling routine and Dick invites a guest over for some sparring training.

It seems weird to admit, but Damian’s been very good since they got moved into the penthouse.

    He started his studies pretty eagerly. Alfred had set him up with them -- it was _not_ Dick’s forte. Damian wound up with two 101 level introductory classes when the gaps in his knowledge were made evident -- he’s pretty good at chemistry, _excellent_ at math, but lacking in sections of biology that don’t have to do with human anatomy or ecology type stuff -- Ra’s’ influence, no doubt. Similarly, the government and world politics part of his social studies education was fairly thorough, but he couldn’t answer a single question about individual development or identity as well as he did the others. A lot more basic on that front. Dick’s not really surprised. If _he_ was an evil asshole raising a kid to kill people, he probably wouldn’t want them to know how not normal things were, or what developmental milestones a kid his age would _normally_ be reaching, since most kid stuff emphasized having _fun_ and competently relating to peers. 

    So, Alfred wound up selecting an introductory biology and human development course from an internet academy. For the rest, Damian had decided to do some research projects. Dick wasn’t exactly sure what the projects were _about_ \-- he hadn’t asked. 

    Either way, Damian’s delved into it pretty well. He didn’t even _complain_ about school. The complaining only started when Dick kept their training gentle and light -- of _course_ he wasn’t going to let Damian do any serious cardio or sparring with his lung the way it was -- and he’d start accusing Dick of not _ever_ letting them go back into the field. After five freaking days. Alfred wants him out of the field for at least five times that long, though Dick is beginning to get the hint that there’s no way he’ll actually follow those orders.  

    Dick has occupied his evenings monitoring the situation in Gotham, in case he wound up being needed soon. Crime rates have been down since the escapees from Arkham got rounded up again (mostly). Almost everyone (besides he, Damian, and Tim, who are all otherwise occupied) has been doing their part -- though, distressingly, he hasn’t seen many reports of Batgirl in action. It’s not like Cassandra to shirk patrol, _especially_ in a trying time like this. When he’d called Babs, though, she said that she had no clue what Cass was up to. She suggested that maybe she just needed time to grieve. 

    One of the training sessions during the day, he invited Cass down, just in case. He figured she _can_ be alone in her grief, but she doesn’t have to. And besides, if she feels up for it, he can use her help. 

    The training started with light exercises for Damian’s shoulder, moderate-intensity exercises for Dick, and Cass’s usual heavy-intensity practice against dummies. Damian keeps stealing glances towards her as she works.

    “That’s one of my adopted ‘siblings’?” he asks, voice dripping with disapproval.

    Man, Dick’s heard of only child syndrome but this is ridiculous. 

    “Yup,” Dick says, aware that Cass can probably hear every word they’re saying. “You should say hi to her. You might be surprised. You might have more in common than you think.”

    “ _Tt_. I doubt it.” After a beat, he says, “Why, what’s her story?”

    “Well, she’s Batgirl. She’s great at fighting. Any more is hers to reveal.”

    “ _Hmph_ . Of course,” Damian says. He stops and swings his arm a bit. “I _think_ I’m ready to spar,” he says.

    _Yeah, right_. But Dick nods. He has an idea how this can work out. 

    “Maybe with a sufficiently gentle partner,” he says, and Damian’s eyes roll so hard that for a moment, Dick can’t see the pupils. Dick perseveres anyway. “Cass, you wanna do some very gentle sparring? Keeping punches away from the chest-area?”

    “ _Please_ stop infantilizing me,” Damian says. “And don’t advertise my weaknesses before a fight!” 

    Dick frowns. He didn’t _mean_ to do that. All he wanted to do was assure that Cass didn’t accidentally re-injured Damian. Bruce had said she was good enough she never hurt anyone unless she meant to. 

    Cass makes her way away from her dummies and over to the two of them. She’s already built up a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She looks quickly between Dick and Damian.

    “Are you ready?” she asks eventually. 

    “Of course. I’m always ready.”

    On second thought, Dick’s not worried about a sparring partner accidentally hurting Damian. He’s worried about Damian hurting himself in competitiveness. 

    The two of them don’t bother going to the batbunker’s sparring arena, they just start on the open floor. Cass makes the first move -- a tentative roundhouse kick at waist height -- and they go from there. 

    Dick takes the opportunity to stop his exercise and just rest and watch. Besides, he figures he can offer Damian advice afterwards -- if the kid would accept it. 

    Damian’s fast, even injured, but Cass is fast as well, and she can see what moves he’s going to make before he does them -- okay, so that’s not _exactly_ how it works, but it _feels_ like that a lot. Dick’s waiting for the realization to hit, for Damian to realize that she’s a bit _too_ good.

    The pace picks up, Damian starts breathing harder and falters. Cass reaches a hand out to help him and he takes it at first, but then uses it to pull her in and aim a knee at her torso. Cass steps back, and since she’s still got his hand, flips Damian on his back. Damian lands with a _thwack_ on the ground and starts coughing a _lot_.

    Dick waits, seeing how this will play out.

    “You’re -- good,” Damian admits between coughing fits. 

    Cass holds a hand down for him to help him up, despite the earlier trickery associated with the gesture. Damian takes it.

    “You cheat,” Cass says.

    Damian rubs his chest. “As an assassin, I was taught never to fight fair.”

    “ _Ex_ -assassin,” Cassandra says. “You can’t think of yourself as an assassin. You can’t be one. Not anymore.”  
    Damian scowls. “Thanks for the lecture.”

    Still, Dick is thinking the encounter _could_ be going a lot worse. 

    Damian holds his hands up in a fighting position. “Again,” he says, even though his breathing isn’t back to normal yet.  
    Cass raises an eyebrow in an unspoken question. 

    Damian rushes her and she steps out of the way. He’s quick enough to try to sweep her leg after she does, but she’s also quick enough that her leg’s nowhere near there by time his is. It’s pretty much high-speed dodging on Cass’s part and high-speed attacking on Damian’s, which is actually _pretty_ fun to watch. It takes concentration, keeping up with them going at that pace.

    Damian crumples without Cass even touching him -- he overextends his arm on a punch and suddenly grabs his left hand to his chest protectively. 

    Dick steps forward, ready to tell him to cut it out. It looks like he was right about Damian hurting himself.

    “Damian,” Dick says.

    Damian shakes his head and straightens himself out again, trying to disguise his ragged breaths. “I’m fine,” he says. He looks back at Cass, and for the second time, says, “Again.”

    Cass shakes her head. “I’m not fighting an injured child. This was a bad idea.” 

    “I’m not a _child_ ,” Damian says. 

    Cass just cocks her head and furrows her eyebrows in skepticism.

    “Damian, I think that’s been enough sparring,” Dick says.

    “It’s not over until there’s a _victor,_ ” Damian says. 

    Meaning, until _I’m_ the victor. That would leave them down here forever, Dick is pretty sure. But he doesn’t say anything. He has no clue what he _can_ say. 

    Damian advances on Cassandra carefully now, waiting for her to move a muscle, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he attacks simultaneously with a cross and a knee to her, and she steps around him and whacks him on the back of the neck. He falls on his hands and knees from the force of the blow.

    Dick rubs his face. He has no clue whether Cassandra counts this as helping or hurting. 

    Damian grabs Cassandra’s leg while he’s down and tries to muscle her into a leg-lock. Dick recognizes what he’s doing -- against someone who’s faster than he is and seems to know what moves he’s making before _he_ does, Damian wants to out-muscle his opponent. But that move works a lot better when you’re not ten and injured. 

    Cassandra lets out a noise of surprise, and Dick guesses maybe Damian _did_ hit something that hurt. Unfortunately for Damian, she reacts by kneeing him to the face, sending him sprawling on the ground again. 

    Dick steps in, ready to break them up, but Cassandra holds an open hand out to him to stop him.

    Damian stands back up. “It’s not over...” he says.

    Cassandra shakes her head. “No,” she says. 

    Damian steps in with a punch and Cassandra elbows his arm as she blocks. “It’s not over,” Cassandra says again. “Not until your enemy is bleeding on the ground.”

    “So you understand.”

    “But _you_ don’t,” Cassandra says. “You spar like an _assassin_. I’ll come back, when you learn another way.”

    And with that, she leaves the room and goes to the elevator. Dick walks over to Damian, half wondering if he should apologize, because that obviously didn’t turn out how Damian would have liked, but also half ready to _thank_ Cass, because he’s pretty sure Damian needs to get it through his head that he’s not invincible. 

    “Damian, are you okay?” Dick asks.

    Damian scowls at Dick. “Of course I’m all right! Don’t patronize me!”

    “I didn’t figure that caring about someone’s well-being meant ‘patronizing’.”

    “Don’t play dumb with me, Grayson, you heard her, you know what _we_ do.” A pause for a deep breath. “No sparring lesson in the League would _ever_ be this gentle, no one would _ever_ expect me to take it easy until I’ve recovered.”

    And that is a bad thing, Dick wants to say. A really bad thing. 

    “She’s an assassin, isn’t she?” Damian asks. “Or she _used_ to be.”

    “How’d you know?”

    “Her way of fighting, the way that she seemed to know what I was talking about, you saying we might have something in common.”

    Dick sighs. He has no clue what to tell Damian, so he doesn’t tell him anything more about Cass. Her past is private, he figures, her business, even if Damian deduced that she used to train as an assassin. “I’m going to show Cass out,” he says, “to be polite. You ice your injury until I get back.”

    Damian doesn’t move for the minifreezer where the ice pack is kept, so Dick walks over and tosses him one. Damian’s scowl intensifies as he just holds it out in his hands.

    Then Dick goes to find Cass. She’s still waiting right by the elevator, and presses the button to call it when she sees Dick.

    “Sorry,” Dick says as they hop in the elevator. “I appreciate you coming down here -- ”

    “It wasn’t for you,” Cass says.

    “Ouch.”

    She frowns. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

    The elevator _dings_ and they’re back up to the apartment building. Ready to enter the public. But they don’t. They just stay in there, the last bit of privacy they’ve got before the real world.

    “I was concerned.” 

    “About Damian?” 

    “He tried to _kill_ Tim.”

    Okay, so Tim did tell her that. 

    “If that’s the case, I’m glad at the restraint you showed -- ”

    “I wasn’t going to get revenge,” Cass says. She leans against the wall of the elevator. “Just… making sure.”

    Dick’s not _entirely_ sure what “making sure” means in this case. Making sure Damian’s not a threat? Making sure he won’t kill people?

    Cassandra sighs heavily. “I’m tired,” she says.

    Dick waits for her to continue. He figures she will -- Cassandra didn’t speak very slowly, but she did speak _precisely_. She probably had to translate her thoughts to verbal before saying them, which meant sometimes, often, she was okay with long gaps in the conversation while she figured out the language.

    “I’m tired of people thinking they can turn children into weapons, Nightwing. We stopped Cain’s academies, but there is _always_ someone else.”

    _We_ , Dick thinks, is probably just Cassandra here. She’d been hunting down David Cain when she heard he and Deathstroke teamed up to try to turn a bunch of teenage girls into assassins. Dick was almost sure that she was going to _kill_ Cain for what he did. 

    Dick _wants_ to ask Cass for advice. She probably knows best out of anyone in the family about what to do with Damian. But he also knows that she’s been through a lot lately, and if she could help, she probably would have volunteered. 

    “I haven’t seen Batgirl around much lately,” Dick says eventually. He doesn’t know where to go on the other track of the conversation -- the one about kids and weapons.

    “I haven’t seen Batman around much lately,” Cassandra says. She looks at Dick and tilts her head slightly to the side. Her hair falls over a corner of her face. “You decided to do it.” It’s not question.

    Dick nods awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess… I felt like I had to.”

    “Hmm.”

    Hmm? What’s ‘hmm’ mean?

    “Besides,” Dick adds. “I really didn’t feel like it’d be fair to ask anyone else. Be fair to them, I mean. A lot of stress. And I don’t know… feeling like a fraud?”

    “You’re a fraud?”

    Dick shrugs. “It _feels_ that way, doesn’t it?”

    “I don’t know,” Cass says. “I haven’t seen you fight as him yet.”

    _Thanks for the vote of confidence_. But at least it hopefully means that she’s not resentful of it. 

    “Good luck with the kid,” Cass says, and she’s off before Dick can ask anything else. She’s doing that a _lot_ lately, Dick thinks. Getting up and going like she’s got somewhere really important to be. But, he supposes, Cass does that a lot, according to Tim and Barbara. They really knew her better.

    Dick sighs and heads back down to Damian.

    Damian hops up and drops his ice pack immediately once he sees Dick, but Dick’s just taking that as a sign that at least he _was_ icing his wound. Dick guesses that Damian can admit to not being invulnerable in private. 

    “She’s strange,” Damian says once he sees Dick. He starts practicing some kicks now on a sparring dummy. “Very competent. Is that why Father adopted her?”

    “He doesn’t really hold auditions,” Dick says. “And it wasn’t about the fighting skills. It was about family.”

    “Family is fighting, Grayson. Especially this family.”

    “That’s healthy.”

    “It doesn’t have any bearing on my physical wellness.”

    Dick rolls his eyes, even though it’s not the most mature move. “You don’t have to be obtuse.”

    Damian takes a break from his practicing kicks to practice scowling at Dick. “I wasn’t being obtuse. You were the one who brought health into it.”

    This intentional misunderstanding is getting old. Unless… “Did you not understand?” Dick asks. 

    “I understand everything, Grayson, I flawlessly speak six languages.”

    Of course he does. Still, Dick explains, “ _Healthy_ like… a healthy interpersonal interaction. Not ‘what’s your heart rate, what’s your blood pressure?’”

    “I’m having a hard time seeing how an interpersonal interaction can be healthy or unhealthy,” Damian says. “Unless someone stabs you.”

“Well, sometimes things that people do make you feel bad. Or you just bounce off someone in a way where you encourage each other’s worst habits.”

Damian narrows his eyes skeptically.

Dick sighs. He’s not getting anywhere with this. “It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to Tim or Cass or Babs,” he says eventually.

“I’m not ‘nice’,” Damian says.

“I _know_. That’s the problem.” Dick swings his arm a little. He’s feeling a lot less stiff now, after the light exercise and getting an opportunity to rest. “How are you holding up? Did sparring work okay?”

“I’ve told you before, Grayson, you don’t have to worry about me. I heal quickly.” 

Dick’s half expecting Damian to suggest they immediately go back to sparring after this due to some masochistic schedule and a complete lack of ability to suggest adherence to mere mortal healing routines. You know… mini-Bruce stuff. But instead, Damian frowns slightly. His eyebrows draw in, with concentration, and he asks, “How does one be ‘nice’, anyway?”

Not what Dick was expecting him to ask.

“I guess you let people know you’re listening to them,” Dick says. “And that you care about them.”  
    “So you lie?”

Dick resists the urge to rest his face in his palm. “No, you’re nice because you _genuinely_ care about people.”

“Everyone?”

Dick scratches his head. “Well, you treat people how you’d like them to treat you. I don’t know, Damian, how did you get other kids your age to like you?” Stupid question, he probably hasn’t interacted with any other kids. “Or, if there weren’t any kids, how’d you get people outside your family to like you?”  
    Damian crosses his arms. “What people, Grayson? There was my mother, my grandfather, my tutors, and Grandfather’s fanatics -- the assassins.”

Dick swallows. “So you haven’t had any substantial interaction with anyone who isn’t either your immediate family, or employed by your immediate family?” 

“I suppose not,” Damian says. “But it hardly matters. I learned everything I need to know in the League. I learned how to be _respectful_ to people who’ve earned it. Isn’t that nice enough?”

“How many people have earned it?”

“Two.”

Dick groans internally. He had no idea where he expected this to go. 

“We should get back to sparring,” Damian says. “I feel my lung capacity increasing already.”

And just like that, whatever brief segue Damian had into normal interactions is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in all my multichapter fics, I couldn't really resist putting Cass in. I love her too much, even though I don't have any plots for her as the protagonist yet. 
> 
> I also think it's a huge missed opportunity that she barely interacts with Damian, considering the parallels in their backstories.


	6. Regrets part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian leaves the penthouse and tries to find out the differences between the League of Shadows and the outside world.

Damian is not happy. 

It’s not losing the sparring match, or even the fact that Father had adopted yet  _ another _ person who wasn’t him. It was something Grayson had said, though he has no clue whether Grayson  _ intended  _ it to bother him. Still, the man had asked, “How do you get other people to like you?” and Damian realized he had no clue.

It  _ should  _ be enough that he’s competent. He’s worthy of respect, he’s had the best teachers, the most thorough training, he could rule the world if he chose to. It’s what  _ he’s  _ respected in people. Ability. It should be enough.

But it’s not. Interacting with anyone outside the League of Shadows has made that painfully clear to him. If it’s not Drake’s constant whining that he’s dangerous, it’s a lecture from a woman he just met, it’s Grayson suggesting he go to a school for violent children. Everyone seems to think that there’s something wrong with him. Mother  _ never  _ had said or insinuated anything to that effect. Neither did Grandfather, or any of the assassins or tutors. He recalled mostly receiving unwavering obedience from the assassins, each ready to die in his and his grandfather’s glory. From his tutors, he’d received alternating instruction and praise, depending on how well he was picking up the material. They’d never admonished him for any unbecoming behavior -- they wouldn’t have the authority. Their job was to serve the Al Ghuls.  _ Damian _ ’s job was to be the best heir he could be. Being liked never factored into it. More importantly, being  _ disliked  _ by someone whose opinion mattered had never seemed like a risk. There were really only two people whose opinions mattered. The rest were failures, servants, or civilians he’d see once in his lifetime and then never again. 

It’s evident, however, that mindless servitude isn’t what Father had in mind for any of his people -- the arguments between Drake and Grayson make that clear. It seems more like an awkward extended family, with all of the usual spats, grudges, favoritism, and alliances, than any type of coherent organization. It’s as if  _ everyone  _ is expected to have Al Ghul status and no one, save for Pennyworth, is expected to serve. It will reduce their efficiency, Damian thinks, to argue about what to do before doing it. When their leadership is this divided and they don’t have one clear head. 

Damian wants to find out more about however this works. He wants to get rid of this stupid feeling that there’s something wrong with him for not knowing how to deal with non-League members. The only way he can think of doing that is finding out what the rules are in the outside world -- but he’s not going to beg Grayson or Pennyworth to explain it to him as if to a child. That would be humiliating. And besides, they’d try to convince him to act differently. They’d keep insisting that there’s something wrong with him. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to change, he merely wants to understand. So, he figures he can do reconnaissance on his own. 

Damian dresses in a suit and jacket, still unsure of what to wear besides that, and slips a grappling gun in his jacket pocket and two knives into his sleeves in case of trouble. As he exits his bedroom, he sees Pennyworth in the main room of the penthouse, reading a book on the couch. Pennyworth shuts it as he sees him.

“Are you going out, Master Damian?”   
Damian nods.

“I shall accompany you.”

“Don’t,” Damian says. He’s sick of being treated like he’s under house arrest.

Pennyworth frowns slightly, but nods. “Take your phone, so we can call if we need you.”

Damian’s becoming accustomed enough to Grayson and Pennyworth’s double speak that he knows the man means ‘if  _ you  _ need us’. He pointedly takes his phone out of his pocket and sets it on the coffee table right in front of Pennyworth, then leaves.

He should have taken Grayson’s Porsche, he thinks, as he’s wandering the streets of Gotham. It will take forever to get anywhere like this. But he’s also aware of the fact that a ten-year-old driving a car would be rather conspicuous. Not because of his driving, obviously, he’s an excellent driver. But because it’s not legally allowed in Gotham. People would assume he stole it and was joyriding. That was never a risk in the League. All of the people who worked for his Grandfather knew of him, they knew not to make a fuss about him doing something unusual for his age. He’d never have to pretend to be something else. He only acted as he was  _ supposed  _ to act, to be a worthy heir, to be the best. Why would he ever pretend he’s not?

As he walks, Damian passes cafes, shops, office buildings, the occasional vagrant street performer, and big bundled groups of people in public. None of the places he passes offer him a vantage point he wished for, so he keeps going. He catches snippets of conversation as he does, but it can’t be comprehended without context. Someone seems to be talking an awful lot about following birds. Or maybe follow _ ers _ and birds?

Finally, he comes across a good place to get situated. A wide open park. He frowns as he realizes it’s the same one Grayson took him to earlier, but it will have to do. 

There are people throwing little plastic discuses and dogs running after them, elderly people sitting on benches and talking or reading, men and women pushing little strollers and chatting idly, people running or riding bicycles, and children running around after each other. Damian can’t explain why, but he inches towards the children. It’s the first of them he’s seen in their natural environment, he thinks. Outside of cowering and fleeing from kidnappers or thugs. They seem… happy.

Damian walks over to a bench near the children and sits down, hoping it seems like a normal activity. There  _ are  _ people sitting on benches here. Some of them are reading books or on their phones, but some of them are just looking around. There are even a couple watching the children run, though Damian is aware that those could be their parents or servants.

“I gotcha!” one of the boys playing shouts. The boy is around his age, with olive toned skin, curly hair, and big brown eyes. He’s chasing after a girl one or two years his younger who could easily be a blood relative.

“No you didn’t!” the girl says. “No tag-backs!”

“You didn’t say that at the start of the game!”   
“No tag-backs! We  _ always  _ do no tag-backs!”

What the hell is a ‘tag-back’? Damian can’t ask, he has no one around who would answer the question, so instead, he’s glued on the interaction in front of him.

The children start tapping each other in succession -- the girl taps the boy and says “Okay, so  _ you’re  _ it!” He taps her back, a little more forcefully. “ _ You’re  _ it!” 

Each tap seems to increase in force, and eventually the other kids stop running around and the girl falls to the ground, knocked down.

Damian waits for her to retaliate. 

She must, mustn’t she? Otherwise, the boy will think he can do that to her whenever he wants and she’ll let him. But she just stands up and brushes the grass off her butt and says “You’re a  _ jerk _ , I’m telling Mom.”

The girl goes over to a woman on a bench and starts talking. Damian has to strain to hear. “Mom, Nathan pushed me! And tried to tag me back too! Mom!”

_ Mom! _ Like a demand. Damian tries to figure out how his mother would react to that. Probably “don’t address me as such again”, as she did when he called her  _ Talia  _ after a sparring match he thought he’d won, which was followed by a swift whack on the head with the sparring sword to demonstrate the lesson of following through with your blows.

Damian resists the urge to rub his head at the memory.

Bafflingly, the woman neither admonishes nor smacks her child. She instead says, “Nathan, don’t push your sister.” 

And the boy, Nathan, says, “Sorry, Mom.”

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to your sister.”   
“Sorry, Dana.”

“ _ Hmph! _ ” the girl says, crossing her arms in offense. 

“... And I won’t do tag-backs.”

The girl smiles and runs off to join the other kids, beckoning her brother to follow her, and just like that, the two of them are running around again and laughing.

What just happened?

Damian keeps watching, hoping to get some explanation, but none is forthcoming. He  _ does _ , however, pick up on the exercise the children are doing. It seems as if one person pursues the others, then touches one of them, and once touched, the new person becomes the pursuer. Speed, endurance, and agility seem to be the object of the exercise. You can’t demonstrate superior physical strength or fighting skills, because you lose if you’re slow. You can’t  _ defeat  _ your enemy, you’re not allowed to by the rules. Even a superior combatant must merely outrun their pursuers. 

Damian notices some of the children stopping and whispering, and then looking at him. Ah, so he must have been noticed. They start in his direction, and Damian freezes. He has no clue whether to run to avoid the confrontation or stay here and get some more intelligence on civilian children. 

“Do you wanna play tag with us?” the girl, Dana, asks.

“‘Tag’?” Damian repeats awkwardly. 

Dana nods eagerly.

“What’s ‘tag’?”

“How do you  _ not know  _ what tag is?” her brother, Nathan, asks in a tone of extreme condescension. “ _ Everyone  _ knows what tag is.”

Damian scowls. Who does this  _ child  _ think he is, lecturing him like that? As if Damian doesn’t possess a thousand times the knowledge he does. 

“Nathan, don’t be a butterface!” Dana says. She looks at Damian and smiles, then in a stage whisper, says, “My brother’s a butterface, ignore him.”

Damian cringes at the incredibly infantile insult. He leaves quickly, without a word, and Dana says, “ _ Good job _ , Nathan!” Damian doesn’t care. He just wants to get away from these children.

He ducks inside the building nearest to the park to avoid the children, though he’s pretty sure they didn’t bother following him. He still would rather not risk it. 

This was a foolish idea, he thinks, trying to figure out the rules of people who are obviously not him, so obviously beneath him. He didn’t know what he was thinking, coming out in his civilian identity. Due to the implicit rule Grayson and Father had for acting helpless in the public’s eye, he’s pretty sure his civilian identity is the furthest thing from  _ him  _ possible.

The building he’s in is cooled and air conditioned, and there’s a very high ceiling and a wide open floor. People are clustered around one wall, waiting in line, and there are people in suits behind a barrier attending them. Oh. A bank.

There’s a box of lollipops on a shelf near the start of the line. Most people seem to be ignoring it. Damian wanders over and grabs one, just so it looks like he has something to do. He unwraps it but doesn’t actually eat it. It smells funny. Kind of plastic-y. 

He sits down on a chair near the door. There’s a hard screeching sound from a car braking outside, the sound of car doors flying open. Damian perks up. Something’s happening.

Four masked men burst through the door with guns. Damian’s half tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. He wanted to see what civilians were like for a day and he’s already thrust into a combat situation, more fitting for Robin or an Al Ghul.

One of the men shoots his rifle upwards, at the roof, and says, “Everybody down! This is a robbery!” The civilians in line all scream and drop to the floor. The tellers up front also duck down. Damian realizes he’s the only one who didn’t move. He’s been so still in his chair he’s not even sure that the robbers noticed him. 

He could incapacitate them all easily, he realizes, but not without revealing Grayson’s secret. What an asinine way to interact with the world, Damian thinks. Always terrified someone will find out you’re not as small and weak as you should be. As small and weak as everyone else. In a way, it makes  _ everyone else  _ more powerful than you. You have physical power, but you’re scared of them knowing. The fear of people knowing makes you weak, because you allow  _ their  _ presence to dictate the rules of engagement. 

“Kid, get down!” one of the gunmen yells at Damian. Damian blinks dispassionately and gets off his chair and sits on the ground, dropping his lollipop as he does. He doesn’t like it. It’s a disadvantageous position, especially against armed combatants. 

In the front, one of the gunmen is yelling to a teller to fill a bag with money, and they comply readily. Damian supposes that the teller’s boss must not have any policy about standing up to threats. Ra’s Al Ghul would execute someone if they gave away what was his to an enemy. All of the assassins knew that their job was to die in the service of the Al Ghuls, should it come to that. At least it would be a glorious death. These people seem to place their physical well-being above their boss’s glory. What kind of man would want them in his employ, if that’s the case?

On the ground, most of the civilians are huddled down, trying to look as small and helpless as possible. Some seem fairly bored, non-reactive, as non-reactive as he is, but some seem absolutely terrified of the gunmen. Is that how he was, in the eyes of civilians on his missions? Some awful, terrifying person you could never stand up to, only hide from and wait to pass?

Damian frowns.

A siren sounds in the distance.

That was fast, Damian thinks. Very fast. Impressive response time on GCPD.

The first gunman is dragging his bag of money back, the other three following him. “Cops are here!” he says. “Grab a hostage!”

_ Idiots _ , Damian thinks. 

Someone grabs his shoulder and Damian has to clench his fists to avoid responding by punching them back. Stupid Grayson and his stupid rules. Damian’s hardly about to let anyone use him as a hostage, but perhaps, once he’s alone, he can dispatch all the gunmen without any witnesses. He’ll rely on their natural embarrassment at the prospect for them not to tell anyone that it was a ten-year-old who beat them.

One of the civilians in line stands up. A woman in a suit, with short black hair, deep brown skin, and large brown eyes. Why? Wasn’t she just scared two minutes ago?

“Wait,” she says. “That’s a kid. Take me instead.”

Very noble, Damian thinks, but that will just put  _ you  _ in more danger than  _ me _ . He still can’t force himself to react in any way physically, though. The situation seems too absurd, he’s too handicapped by Father’s rules. He’s sure that to any outside observer, he seems alarmingly blank.

One of the men shoots a warning shot at the roof, but the woman doesn’t get back down. She stares at them, almost daring them to do something. 

If no one does anything soon, she’s going to get shot.

The man who grabbed Damian shoves him to the ground hard, and Damian lands on his hands and knees. He clenches his fists and bites back an insult.

The woman walks past Damian, up to the robbers. Her hand is shaking. She’s terrified, Damian realizes. Why did she volunteer if she’s terrified? 

One of the robbers slips a zip tie over her hands and starts dragging her out to the street. As they exit the building, almost everyone seems to visibly relax. Some people stand up and start talking, some people grab their phones, one man starts crying. 

Damian stands up.

Someone is coming after him, saying “hey kid” in misplaced concern that comes way too late. There was only one civilian who was willing to demonstrate concern at what would have been the appropriate time, and now she could wind up dead for it. 

Damian rushes out of the bank. 

He doesn’t know why, it’s stupid, it doesn’t affect him at all. He’s not Robin right now, nor does he have his gear in order to quickly maintain a disguise. He’s pretty sure that he could easily leave this for the police, if they are capable of competently extracting someone. But --

It’s not fair if the one person who demonstrated a backbone dies for it.

As he checks his surroundings, the woman is being shoved in the getaway van. Civilians around the sidewalk seem to be giving everyone a wide berth, which means no one is there to  _ stop  _ Damian.

As the backdoor of the van slams shut, Damian rolls forwards so he can approach quickly and down low, out of the sight of anyone looking out the window. He hops on the back bumper and grabs the back door handle just as the van starts -- fast. Blinding pain shoots up through his entire right side as he’s nearly thrown back from his own inertia. Something’s tight, feeling pulled, and his breath catches in his chest.

_ Wrong, wrong, wrong _ . Something feels incredibly wrong here. A weakness in his pectoral that’s not supposed to be there. 

There’s still the siren in the distance, approaching, though when Damian peaks over his shoulder he can’t see the police car yet. It’s up to him to solve this.

He can’t punch through the back window, he’s tried to punch through car windows from the outside before and it never worked. They must be more fortified on the outside than the inside, in case of an accident -- that’s where the danger would be coming from. 

The van turns a corner sharply, and again Damian barely holds on. He’s unsure if he’ll be able to pick the lock -- it’s taking both his hands just to stay on here. He’s just huddled against it, painfully helpless. 

Stupid. He never would have rushed into a mission this unprepared in his days under his grandfather’s command. He’d have way more than two small knives and a grappling gun. 

Another sharp turn, and Damian’s aware that he won’t stay on next time. He has to get in the van or get flung off. As soon as they start in a somewhat straight path, Damian holds onto the car with only his left hand and uses his right to start jimmying the door open with a knife. It’s hard. His right arm already wants to quit. He doesn’t know why, he didn’t even get shot in the arm. He got shot in the chest, but the stupid, weakened pectoral muscle and lung function is making everything more difficult. 

The door cracks open. Damian temporarily transfers all of his weight to his left arm on the bumper, he has to constantly pull himself forwards to avoid falling off, and kicks the door wide open. He pretty much just throws himself inside, unable to control it at all, and lands sprawled on the floor.

Much less intimidating than he was going for. 

“Hey, it’s that kid!” one of the gunmen says, and the woman says “Oh, no.”

_ You’re welcome _ , Damian thinks. He can’t  _ say  _ anything yet though, he’s breathing heavily and besides, he has yet to find the right words for the situation. After a breath, he finally manages, “Get down,” and fortunately, the woman does. 

There are three men in the back of the van, one in the front seat, driving, and unable to help. The man closest to Damian attempts to grab him, and Damian ducks under his arms and stabs him quickly in the stomach, though his jab was too weak to do any real damage. Still, the man yells, surprised by the sudden pain. 

Damian steps in and throws his entire body weight into an elbow to the floating ribs. There’s a satisfying  _ crack _ , the man grabs his side and Damian knees him to the face as he bends over. By now, one of the men in the back has started aiming his rifle at Damian, but another one seems slow, confused, and hasn’t yet grabbed his gun. The weak link. He leaps at the weak link with an elbow to his face, then bashes him in the nose with the handle of his knife and then a hook to his temple with his entire bodyweight behind it. The weak link falls unconscious. It all happens in about a second, the one with the gun barely has time to adjust his aim. He’s finally got Damian in his sights and Damian drops down, rolling towards him and a spray of bullets cut through the air right above him, slamming into the weak link, one of them right between his eyes. The man seems to stare straight ahead, surprised by his sudden death. 

“You killed your own man!” Damian says. The man with the gun tries to aim at Damian again, but Damian’s too close for a rifle to be effective at this range. He slashes wildly with his knife, once coming across his enemy’s face. Switches to a left hand uppercut to the jaw that has a disappointing lack of effect. He raises his knife -- 

A twinge spikes up through his arm. Damn. He drops the knife without meaning to and the man takes advantage. He hits Damian on the face with the butt of his rifle and shoves him to the ground.

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid _ , Damian thinks. He bucks his hips, trying to get free, but he can’t. The man is too heavy. 

The man strikes Damian across the face with the rifle again and the world fuzzes. He presses his gun against Damian’s head, ready to pull the trigger. Damian just barely shoves the barrel off with his left hand in time, a deafening gunshot rings in his ears as the bullet just misses his cheek and goes through the van’s floor. Damian keeps a hold of the barrel, now hot, and the man on top of him starts punching him in the face. Damian gets a foot up, kicks him in the stomach --

The car turns quickly again, throwing everyone to the wall. Convenience. Getting Damian away from the man on top of him. Damian quickly spits out blood. It feels like there’s blood all over his face, he can barely breathe from it and his still-healing wound. The world is still fuzzy and spinning and he doesn’t know if it was the blows to his head, the gunshot, or his lack of air. 

There’s a yell, and Damian can see that the man with the gun has grabbed the woman when she was thrown from the turn as well. She’s on the ground, he’s pointing a gun at her head.

Another hostage. Weak, petty, evil man. Does he know how to win a fight without terrifying someone helpless? Without restoring to taking hostages.

“I’ll kill her,” the man says. The words are still fuzzy, there’s a ringing in his ears, but it helps that Damian knows that’s what he would be saying. Not very much ambiguity in the body language there. 

He will kill her, Damian knows he will, and Damian’s just wondering if he made things worse by coming after her. The only way he can think to extract the woman alive is if he killed the man with the gun. Charging him or trying to knock him out might give him time to pull the trigger. If Damian can throw his knife quick enough and hard enough, it can go in through his neck and exit through his brainstem. Instantly taking him out of the equation. 

His left arm, he figures. The right one isn’t reliable right now. He slowly eases his knife out of his left sleeve, doing his best to disguise the motion, to appear as still as possible. 

The man yells something else but Damian can’t make it out. What would he be saying? A demand for surrender? Disarmament? 

Damian starts taking a knee, just in case, then he whips his knife through the air. The man falls back, the woman screams, and Damian rushes up just in case his kill wasn’t as quick as he thought. 

He yanks the gun out of the man’s hands before he verifies that the kill was a success, just because if it  _ wasn’t  _ he doesn’t want to leave his enemy armed. But it wasn’t necessary. He leans forward and checks the angle of entrance and the knife flew exactly as he predicted. Dead in less than a second. 

_ He deserved it _ , Damian thinks. He did. He doesn’t care, he can’t care, that the man died. 

The driver says something, but Damian can’t make out the words properly. 

Damian taps the driver’s cheek with his gun, and the man yelps. 

The woman’s sitting up now, checking out the scenery. Damian knows he should say something. Something comforting. That’s what you’re supposed to do for civilians, right? 

“You’re foolish,” Damian says. 

That probably wasn’t it.

The woman looks around the car, eyeing the two dead bodies, and backs up away from them. The man in the back whose ribs Damian had broken is still hunched in a pile, grunting from pain but making no move to retaliate. Damian steps forward and quickly grabs his weapon, just in case, and the man raises his hands.

The guy says something, but the ringing in Damian’s ears prevents him from hearing much besides the last word. Something about teenagers? Ten wagers? 

Damian kicks the man in the face. The man yells and cowers back, terrified.

Damian kicks him again. 

The woman says something near Damian’s ear and starts pulling him back. Her voice is barely audible over the ringing, quiet… calming? 

Why is  _ she  _ trying to comfort  _ him _ ? Did she not notice that he just rescued her?

Damian twists out of the woman’s grasp. She’s looking at him with eyes wide in concern, and suddenly, Damian hates her. How dare she be concerned about him because he’s a child. Didn’t she notice that he was the most competent person in the room? That he was the only person in the bank who didn’t immediately drop to the floor in front of the robbers? That he knew how to deliver death instantly?

The woman says something to the driver, and the car pulls to a stop. The ringing gets louder -- no, that’s not tinnitus. It’s a siren. 

“The police are almost here,” Damian says. He looks down at the man he kicked in the face. “You should surrender.”

The man nods, still scared, and for a moment, Damian revels in it. That is how his enemies  _ should  _ react before him. Terrified.  Is that something Grayson and Pennyworth would understand? 

The woman tries to say something else to Damian and he strains to hear, but it’s of no use with the sirens and the ringing and the lightness in his head. She touches his shoulder and Damian shakes her off again. 

He should leave, now, before the police get there. They would ask questions, ruin the family secret, probably try to arrest him or something for the person he killed. He’s not entirely sure how the rules work here, but it must be a crime, given how Father talked about it.

He peeks out the car. They’re on the side of a street, practically on the sidewalk. To the left is an alleyway between two skyscrapers, an easy place for Damian to escape to. To the right, the road, the traffic, and right behind the van, straight ahead of Damian, is a police car quickly approaching. Close enough that they’ll get here in time to arrest the two remaining robbers and protect the civilian. Damian doesn't have to do anything else. He can leave, so he does. He takes his grapple out of his belt and shoots it at the top of a skyscraper, then retracts on the line to pull him off his feet. He holds it in his left arm, letting that side of his body do more of the work. It still doesn’t feel  _ great _ , but he’s not reinjuring himself.

 He hopes the woman’s bad at describing his face. He doesn’t want the secret revealed, he doesn’t want to have messed up this early in his tenure at his father’s place. 

He just rushes back to the penthouse, mostly using the tops of buildings to avoid being spotted, and then comes in through the roof of the building. By time he gets there, the ringing in his ears has stopped, but he’s still winded. He’s tired of this. Tired of healing, tired of being injured, being weak. He wishes Grayson would have just killed that evil Batman impersonator. That would feel like revenge.

“Master Damian!” Pennyworth says the instant he sees him, and Damian’s hearing is well enough that at least he can understand what he’s saying. “What happened to you?”   
What? Oh. Damian touches his nose. There’s still blood all over his face from where the man struck him. He probably looks like a mess. 

Pennyworth rushes up to Damian and attempts to inspect his nose, but Damian steps back out of his reach. He doesn’t really want to talk about anything that happened outside, but he knows he’ll be pestered with questions anyway. “Where’s Grayson?” Damian asks.

“In his room. Shall I get him?”   
Damian shakes his head. It winds up not mattering, however, because Grayson is already pattering out of his room in jeans, a T-shirt, and no shoes. As usual. He’s always very underdressed. 

“I heard some -- Damian, are you okay?” Grayson asks. As he asks it, concern is written all over his features. 

Damian scowls. “Of course I’m fine.” 

“What happened?”

“Gotham.” Damian doesn’t elaborate. He walks over to the kitchen and starts washing his face in the sink. Grayson and Pennyworth follow him. 

“Damian,” Grayson says. Just his name, but there’s a clear disapproving tone in it. Disapproving of his silence, or the fact that he came home covered in blood?

Damian can’t tell him about killing the man, he realizes. Father’s people already treat him as an outsider, someone who doesn’t belong. Someone one hairsbreadth away from becoming an assassin again.

_ Again _ , Damian thinks. Weird phrasing, he never remembered deciding to  _ stop _ .

“I wound up in a violent altercation in my civilian identity,” Damian says. “Don’t worry, I didn’t reveal any of our secrets.”

“Master Damian, is  _ that  _ what you think we’d be worried about?” Pennyworth asks. 

“Yes.” Isn’t it? Wasn’t Father the one who emphasized his lack of fighting skills in Wayne Enterprises the first time Damian was here? Wasn’t it Grayson who wanted to establish some type of civilian identity for him with paperwork? 

“We want to make sure you’re okay,” Pennyworth says.

“Well, I’m fine,” Damian says, waving dismissively at them. “Concern averted. Go away.”

Pennyworth and Grayson exchange a look.

“I already had one mother, I don’t need a second one,” Damian says. They  _ are  _ hovering around, like she used to when Damian came back from a mission wounded, but neglected to tell her how due to shame. It’s disconcerting, and the wrongness of the situation is only amplified by the fact that the woman tried to protect him earlier today. He doesn’t want to look like he  _ needs  _ protection. He doesn’t need it.

“Can you at least tell us what happened?” Grayson asks.

“No,” Damian says, and dries his face with a towel. He’s pretty sure he got the blood off. It feels almost normal. He starts poking his tongue at his teeth to make sure that none of them are loose.

“Damian,” Grayson says again.   
“I’m going to go do physical therapy,” Damian says, even though he already did it today. He doesn’t want that disconcerting feeling of weakness shooting up his arm  _ ever again _ . His brain and body working in tandem have always been his most valuable assets. Now, his body is betraying him. Not doing what he’s telling it to. It’s time for that to stop.

Damian walks over to his room, and is grateful when Grayson and Pennyworth decide not to follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fairly long. And has a second part (coming in 4-5 days, which is my update schedule).
> 
> I put this scene in because I really want Dick and Alfred (almost wrote Grayson and Pennyworth here from having just come off editing Damian's POV :P) to see how Damian reacts to killing someone emotionally, because I want them to have to confront it. I do think that Damian's at least trying not to kill people* (if he wasn't, I'm not sure why they'd let him be Robin), hence the reason it's in more of a self-defense set-up. 
> 
> *except we see his code is a little different around dangerous supervillains later in Batman and Robin: Born to Kill. Though I suppose that is Bruce's run, so we can't deal w/ the emotional fallout from it in this fic.
> 
> I also realized how hard it is to write generic kids here (as in kids I haven't seen a ton in fiction, whose personalities I'm familiar with). 
> 
> For the scene in the bank, mostly I wanted a chance for at least one of the civilians to demonstrate agency. Didn't want it to be only "look at these awesome characters doing awesome stuff while the civilians act like NPCs."


	7. Regrets part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Dick confront Damian about his involvement in the death of a bank robber.

Damian dreads leaving his room.

    It’s been a couple hours since he got home after killing the bank-robber slash hostage-taker, and he’s completely aware of the fact that Pennyworth and Grayson could have traced the killing to him. They’ll be ready to castigate him, kick him out of the house and tell him he’s unworthy of his father’s mantle, whatever it is they do for punishment. He hasn’t seen it yet, and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to keep himself calm or put up with it if they were to try. 

    He opens his door a crack, hating the trepidation that comes with the act. Outside, there are voices talking. Muted, trying not to be heard, but still identifiable as Grayson and Pennyworth. He sneaks forward silently until he’s right at the end of the hall, as close to the main room as he can be without being seen. 

    “-- can’t freaking believe it, Alfred, he’s been with us for a week and a half and he’s already killed someone! _Two_ people, since they said there were two fatalities.”

    “ _Probably_ ,” Pennyworth says. “We haven’t verified that it’s him yet.”

    “The news said that it was a preteen ninja boy in a suit and Damian comes home covered in blood. It’s not really a hard case to crack.”

    Damian griamces. Of course it was on the news. It was a newsworthy event here, wasn’t it?

    A heavy sigh on Pennyworth’s part. “I still think that we should ask him about it. It’ll be unfair, he’ll feel attacked, if we don’t at least hear his side of the story.”

    Damian wants to tell Pennyworth to shove his pity. He doesn’t need them to step around him delicately for fear of offending his injured ego. 

    “Do you think he’ll _say_ anything?” 

    There’s a long silence on Pennyworth’s part and footsteps around the room. Damian tries to imagine the gait, to find out who’s walking. A few steps and then the floor shifts, as if someone just jumped. That would be _Grayson_ , then. 

    “Have you considered,” Pennyworth says finally, “that if Master Damian were not Robin, the tone of this conversation would be different. We wouldn’t be trying to figure out what to _do_ about him, we’d be trying to figure out how to _help_ him.”

    Damian clenches his teeth. Again with that. 

    “What do you mean by that?” Grayson asks.

    “Well, from what I gather, he was a child, surrounded by four armed men and one hostage. It’d be a clear case of self defense.”

    Damian’s not sure what him being a child has to do with this, because as far as he knows, ending a fight with lethal force is _always_ self defense. Kill or be killed. Even if you’re an inarguably superior combatant who can disarm your foes with ease, letting them know that you’ll spare them only emboldens their next attempt on your life. But Father’s people clearly don’t subscribe to that ideology, or at least he _thought_ they didn’t. 

    “That’s not really how Bruce phrased it,” Grayson says. “I know what you mean, just… it’s not something _we_ can do. You know Bruce. It’s never an option. We’re intentionally putting ourselves in harm’s way. We have to be able to defuse things without killing anyone. It’s not like a civilian getting surprised by someone and having no choice but to fight back with lethal force.”

    “I know. But he _was_ in his civilian identity.”

    Another heavy sigh, this time on Grayson’s part. The two of them seem _tired_ , Damian realizes. Tired of him?    

    “So, if we’re treating this like a normal kid thing, where do we go?” Grayson asks. “We have to -- well, we have to do _something_ about what happened. Like, I care that someone died, obviously, but I guess for a kid, we’d also have to… I don’t know, get Damian therapy or something if it’s self defense. He just killed someone. He’ll need it…. I mean, I _hope_ he needs it...”

    He trailed off. Disconcerting. Is he planning his next move? Are he and Pennyworth going to turn on Damian? Are they going to merely kick him out, or lock him up like a common criminal? For what? The effective elimination of an enemy? All of a sudden, Damian craves the simplicity of the League of Shadows, he yearns for the rhetoric of the grandfather who never wanted him. The outside world will never do what it takes to _solve_ problems, they only care about putting a bandaid on them. Why can’t everyone see that?

    Still, Grayson had said _I care that someone died, obviously_. As if it were truly obvious. What a strange man. Damian wants to ask him what if it was someone who killed someone very close to him? What if it was a completely objectionable human being? But more to the point of the matter, Damian can’t empathise with him.

Death is one of his earliest memories. He doesn’t know how old he was, but he couldn’t have been older than three or four. He and Mother were staying in Grandfather’s base in the Himalayas. There had been some talk of traitors in their midst, and Mother had found one. She brought him before Ra’s Al Ghul, and he immediately started begging. Damian watched above the throne on a balcony. Mother had suggested Damian go back to his room to finish his calligraphy lessons. No, Grandfather said, this should be a lesson for you, Damian. Then he withdrew his sword and beheaded the man. The thing that struck Damian most was how, from his vantage point, the man simply seemed to become empty. Whatever was inside his body that was animating it vanished in an instant, like turning a light off. Is it that easy?

Your birthright, Grandfather had said afterwards. In your missions, it is you who will command life and death. You must wield this power responsibly. Of course, Damian had said. Of course, Grandfather.

Then, Damian had been escorted back to his room by a servant. Mother stayed with Grandfather. It seemed, Grandfather said, that there was more than one lesson to be learned today. 

Damian has no clue how Grayson would react to a lesson like that. Probably awfully, if he truly cares just hearing about a random man’s death. 

Damian’s tired of just standing here watching. He wants Pennyworth and Grayson to have to say whatever they will to his face, he wants to get this over with. He steps out loudly from behind the wall. Pennyworth is sitting on the couch and Grayson is balancing above him on the backrest, treating it as a balance beam and almost pacing agitatedly. He hops down to the floor when he sees Damian.

“Master Damian, it’s very rude to eavesdrop,” Pennyworth says.  
    “It’s very rude to talk about people behind their backs,” Damian says.

Pennyworth and Grayson exchange a look. 

“Damian, did you actually kill two people today?” Grayson asks, avoiding the point.

“No,” Damian says. 

Grayson seems to smile slightly in relief. 

Damian continues, “I killed _one_ person. The second fatality was a result of friendly fire. ”

Grayson’s mouth turns downwards in disapproval.  

“I don’t care,” Damian says, not giving either of them an opportunity to lecture him. “And why should I? You were already debating amongst yourselves whether it was ethical.”

Grayson walks over to him and Pennyworth gets up off the couch and follows.

“Damian, it’s not _ever_ ethical for a superhero to kill someone,” Grayson says.

“Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t acting as a superhero at that time. And don’t even try to pretend you weren’t aware of that fact, I heard you.”

“Then you know what Bruce would say,” Grayson says.

There’s some type of wrong feeling in Damian’s stomach. He knows Father wouldn’t have given him the Robin designation if he thought he was going to kill again. His father --

Damian doesn’t want to think about it. Not more about how he’s not living up to his father’s moral code. Maybe his moral code is why he’s dead. Maybe, if he’d dispatched his enemies earlier, they wouldn’t have gotten to him.

And Damian realizes that he never asked _how_ Father died. “What happened to him?” he asks suddenly, unable to help himself.

“To Bruce?”

Damian nods.

Grayson presses his lips together in a thin line. “Damian, are you seriously trying to change the topic _now_?”

Damian shakes his head. “I’m not. There’s just not more you can say. You already admitted you didn’t know what to do about the situation. I can’t take it back.”

“Master Damian, don’t you care at all about what you did?” Pennyworth asks.

“Of course not,” Damian says. “I just told you that thirty seconds ago! The man was a degenerate. He terrified civilians, he killed his own man, he was going to shoot an innocent woman! He _deserved_ to die!”

“Damian, _no one_ deserves to die,” Grayson says. 

Damian rolls his eyes. Do these people not understand how absurd their black and white morality sounds? How childish? “What about the person who killed my father?”  
    Grayson’s eyes widen and he swallows. Damian had chosen his words specifically because he knew they’d hurt him, and it seems to have worked. “No,” Grayson says through clenched teeth, “Not even him.”

“Does _Pennyworth_ agree?” Damian asks. 

Pennyworth frowns. “If the life of the man who killed your father were in my hands, I wouldn’t kill him. It’s not what Bruce would want.”

Damian smirks slightly. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“Damian, this isn’t some stupid hypothetical, it’s real life!” Grayson says. “How do I know you’re not going to kill someone again? How can we work together? _How aren’t you more upset by this_ ?”  
    “Don’t get hysterical.”

“‘ _Hysterical_ ’? Damian, are you freaking kidding? _Please_ , answer the question,” Grayson says, and an uncomfortable, pleading tone slips into his voice. “ _Please_ tell me how I know you won’t kill someone again. I don’t want -- ” he cuts himself off.

“You don’t want _what_?” Damian asks.

“I want to feel like we can work together,” Grayson finishes weakly. Damian knows it wasn’t what he was going to say. He was going to say _I don’t want to arrest you_ , or something along those lines. Something threatening. 

“Why? Why do you care?”

“Do you _not_ want to work with Master Dick?” Pennyworth asks. “I thought you liked the idea of being Robin.”

“Stay out of this, Pennyworth!” Damian snaps. “This doesn’t concern you, so stop trying to manipulate me!”

“I beg pardon, but I’m not trying to manipulate you,” Pennyworth says. “I’m trying to get you and Master Dick to stop yelling at each other and speak calmly.”

Calm? Damian’s already calm! _Grayson’s_ the one freaking out about the death of an inconsequential scumbag!

Grayson sighs. He seems to be trying to calm his breathing. “And I appreciate it,” he says, “But I don’t want you to have to be the mediator all the time. I’ll be calmer, Alfred. You don’t have to do anything.”  
    “Maybe I’d like to talk to Master Damian alone, if that’s all right,” Pennyworth says.

Damian narrows his eyes. He’s not quite sure where this is going. “Fine,” he says. “Grayson can throw his fit elsewhere.”

Grayson scowls, but puts on his shoes and leaves in silence. Good.

“Master Damian, would you like to sit down?” Pennyworth asks, gesturing at the couch.

Damian shakes his head. 

“That’s fine.” Pennyworth, however, takes a seat. 

Damian walks over in front of him, so they’re looking at each other, but stays on his feet. “What did you want to talk about?” he asks. 

“You know,” Pennyworth says, “When I was a young man, before I came into your family’s employ, I was a soldier.”

Damian frowns. He realizes that he’d never imagined what Pennyworth was like _before_ he was serving his father. The man seemed to just have always been a servant. Why would you ask if he’d ever done anything else?

“I’m sure you’re familiar with a soldier’s duties,” Pennyworth says. 

Damian nods. “Lots of lethal weaponry, lots of people die,” he says. “So why are you acting like you have the high ground?”

“If you’ll listen to me, you’ll realize that I’m not,” Pennyworth says. “In my duties, I did sometimes take another person’s life. I’m not sure your father ever realized, emotionally, that that’s what happened. I regret it, but regret can’t change anything.”

Damian tries to imagine regretting killing. He tries to regret it. But he can’t. He can’t imagine that the man he killed would have done anything more than rob more banks or take more civilians hostage. He can’t imagine this as anything more than the successful removal of one more enemy.

“Would you take it back, if you could?” Damian asks. 

“Yes,” Pennyworth says, “if I could, I would, unless the other option would cause grievous damage to civilians or my family. But sometimes, when you’re armed with guns, the only available way you see to end the conflict is with lethal force. It’s one of the reasons your father never carried them.”

“So you’re saying that when you killed people, it was okay?” Damian asks. 

Pennyworth shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m saying at all, Master Damian. I’m saying that I would have liked to have another option, and perhaps I did sometimes, but didn’t see it. That’s something that you can do. You have an advantage that most children -- and most adults -- don’t have.”

Damian waits for Pennyworth to continue, suspicious of whatever is coming next.

“There are very few people who have your skills,” Pennyworth says. “Because of that, you might have more power to end a conflict on your terms. Whether those terms are lethal or nonlethal is not something I can dictate. There may be times, however, that even with your talents, you can’t end something the way you want to. It happens to everyone.”

Damian doesn’t like this. Pennyworth is even more manipulative than Damian had initially thought.  He’s trying to frame not killing as something a superior combatant would do. Like Father. It’s not _supposed_ to be easy. Is he hoping that Damian’s pride will trick him into following the rules?

“Was this one of those times, Master Damian?” Pennyworth asks. “Do you think you could have gotten out safely without ending someone’s life?”

Damian scowls. “Does it really matter? The man didn’t deserve to breathe!” 

“And you’re standing by that?”  
    Damian nods.

“That’s something you’ll have to speak with Master Dick about, then,” Pennyworth says. “If you are prepared to force your belief on who should breathe or not in the field, he won’t want you being Robin.”

“That’s not _his call_ , is it?”

“Your father wouldn’t want you doing it, either,” Pennyworth says. He looks down and rubs his face. “I can’t _make_ you think that another human being’s death was a tragic thing, Damian, even if I believe it. _No one_ can change your belief on whether someone deserves to live or die, no matter how much they might want to. Your father might not have been able to. _You_ might not be able to.”

It’s as if Pennyworth had seen straight into Damian’s head, seen him trying to imagine regretting killing that man. Damian hates it. 

“But you can _decide_ to not kill,” Pennyworth continues. “If you want to. You can decide to try things your father’s way, Master Dick’s way. Just because you think someone deserves death doesn’t mean you have to give it to them.”

“Spit it out,” Damian says. He’s tired of Pennyworth’s gentle words, of him prodding around the topic tepidly.

“Both Master Dick and I want to believe that if you tell us you won’t kill again, you won’t. We want to believe that things can change.”

“But you don’t find my word worth anything?” Damian asks.

“That’s not what I said.”  
    Damian scoffs. “I’m not about to prostrate myself before you and beg for forgiveness.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Damian wishes that Pennyworth would just shout back at him, like Grayson. He knows how to deal with that. He can deal with anger much better than… whatever this is. “Then what _are_ you asking?”

“I’m not asking anything of you, Master Damian. I’m telling you some things. What you do with the knowledge is entirely up to you.” 

Damian’s not naive enough to buy that. Still, he can feel himself wilting. It’s very hard to stay mad at someone who refuses to be mad back at you. “I’ll try,” Damian says eventually. “I --” he hates admitting this, hates the weakness that it carries, but he tries to force it out anyway. “I couldn’t see a way to get the hostage out alive without lethal force, Pennyworth.”

“Then I think you did the right thing,” Alfred says, “But that doesn’t mean we need a repeat of the incident. We can _train_ you to disarm someone at a distance. We can train you how to end a fight without resorting to lethal force.”

“I already told you people, I’ve sparred my mother --”

“But nothing bad happens when your mother wins, does it?” Pennyworth asks.

“Well, I look bad.”

“What I mean to say is that perhaps when the situation is less dire, such as in training against someone you love, losing is an option if you get overwhelmed or can’t see another non-lethal way out. You don’t have to end the fight by ending someone’s life. But no matter how dire things get, that’s never an option for Master Dick or your father. And we can help with that.”

As if he needs more training from a circus brat or servant. But Damian still can’t reclaim his earlier anger. 

“Fine,” Damian says. “I’ll do it your way. Even if it makes no sense.”

“I believe you,” Pennyworth says, and the earnestness of it and his expression just makes Damian deeply uncomfortable. “I’ll inform Master Dick that Robin is still on.”

Damian swallows. Something still feels deeply wrong, but he can’t articulate why. He doesn’t like how Pennyworth handled this situation, even though the man _seems_ to have defused things and gotten everything back on track smoothly. It’s not how Grandfather would have handled it, nor Mother, nor Father. Damian leaves the room before Pennyworth can say anything else to him, before he can feel more out of his element than usual. It’s only when he gets in his room and gets under his covers that he realizes he had no idea he could step out of the bounds of whatever people deemed acceptable behavior without facing some type of punishment, and he doesn’t know what to do with _that_. 

He lays in bed for a while, but he doesn’t get to sleep at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of different interpretations I've seen for how people deal with Damian's emotions re: killing. I've seen some people write like he always regretted it, some people write like he regretted it at first but then got numb to it, and obviously then there's my interpretation.
> 
> My logic is that I'm not sure we see him articulate why killing someone is wrong until Robin: Son of Batman. We see that he doesn't really want to do it in Batman and Robin: Born to kill (after killing Nobody, he says "I want to be like you (Bruce)" or something. But he often emphasizes that he's not killing people because of a promise he made to Bruce or respect for him, not because he thinks it's wrong. So I think it's definitely an attitude he had to develop slowly, and didn't always have. 
> 
> Alfred's attitude WRT killing someone was also hard for me to pin down. in Bruce Wayne: Fugitive, I'm pretty sure he and Leslie talk about how killing any one person strips you of your humanity or something. But in Batman Eternal he stabs a vampire or something in the neck and says it's not something you ever forget how to do, implying that he used to be able to do it? But also that's Prime Earth, so who knows. In New Earth he at least seemed like if he had to kill someone to protect himself or a civilian, he would (IIRC he's trying to protect people in NML and has a shotgun against a bunch of baddies and is like "god forgive me" In his internal monologue so clearly regretful about the potential... and then batman shows up before he has to shoot anyone)
> 
> I should probably save the character analysis essays for tumblr or something, but I figured if someone was curious about why I made which character decisions, they could read them here.


	8. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick gets the first hints that there's a Batman who isn't him running around, Damian fixes the Batmobile, and Alfred tries to get the boys out of the house.

Alfred Pennyworth has had too much time alone with his thoughts.

Living in the penthouse is different than the mansion, it’s smaller, it takes substantially less time to keep in order. Furthermore, since Dick had decided to spend a week healing after his battle with Jason, Alfred hasn’t had to manage any nightly patrol duties or breakfasts/dinners at 4:00 a.m. 

It should be a good thing, finally getting the opportunity to rest. In a way, it is -- he feels much better physically than he has in weeks. But getting the opportunity to rest means he also is alone with his thoughts more, alone with his grief. It’s not right, the old burying the young, he had told Dick shortly after Bruce’s death. And it still doesn’t feel right.

This day, he finds himself interrupted from his sparse duties in the Batbunker by Damian. Damian has what looks like an entire disassembled Batmobile in front of him. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a red T-shirt, much more dressed down than usual. His face is smudged by oil and perspiration.

“Master Damian, what on Earth are you doing to that Batmobile?” Alfred asks.

“Fixing it,” Damian says. 

“I wasn’t aware it was broken.”

“It functions  _ sub-optimally _ ,” Damian says, grabbing one of the pieces from the disassembled engine, staring at it with disapproval, and then taking out a small screwdriver and going to work on it. “It’s not perfect.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Alfred asks. To the best of his knowledge, Bruce kept most of his equipment in perfect working order.

Damian just jerks his head at a series of papers next to him. Alfred walks over and starts scanning them. They look like blueprints --

“Father wanted it to be able to fly,” Damian says. “He didn’t succeed in that. I will.”   
Alfred’s not entirely sure what they  _ need  _ a flying Batmobile for if they already have a plane, but he doesn’t bother asking Damian that. He doesn’t want to imply the boy is wasting his time. Instead, he asks, “And what will you do with it, once you’ve fixed it?”   
Damian shrugs. “Whatever you’d normally use the Batmobile for. Does it matter? I’m continuing my father’s work.”

“As you should,” Alfred says.

“ _ Tt _ .”

“Have you spoken with Master Dick since you last left the apartment?” Alfred asks. 

“You mean, since I killed that man?”

Alfred nods.

“No.”

“You should. You’ll work together better if you get on speaking terms  _ before  _ going out in the field.”

Damian scoffs. 

“I’m being serious, Master Damian.”

“I know you are.” Damian sets down the part he was working on and stands up, stretching out his arms as he does so. “But Grayson and I don’t think on the same level. There’s no way he can possibly understand why I did what I did, or any reason he has to believe me if I say I won’t do it again.”

“People can understand things without agreeing with them,” Alfred says. “Master Dick understands a lot, even if he doesn’t condone your actions.”

Damian presses his lips together in a thin line and lowers his browline. A scowl. He’s been doing that a lot lately. In fact, Alfred’s not quite sure that he’s ever seen Damian smile from genuine happiness, except maybe the one time Bruce took him to Wayne Enterprises. It’s concerning. And the boy’s childhood was unconventional enough that Alfred doesn’t even know where to  _ start  _ to get him to lighten up. It was almost easier to temporarily cheer Bruce up after the death of his parents, though he’s not sure how much either one of the two would  _ like  _ the comparison. Bruce was able to articulate the injustice of his situation, the unfairness, clearly enough; meanwhile Alfred’s not sure if Damian would ever agree that something bad had happened to him when he was being raised in the League, that his childhood  _ wasn’t  _ ideal.

“It’s almost worse that way, isn’t it?” Damian asks eventually. “If they understand but still think you’re  _ wrong _ . They don’t think it’s an incapacity on their part, not being able to understand, but rather a moral failing on yours, for doing the wrong thing. ”

“Do  _ you  _ think you’re wrong?” Alfred asks.

“Of course not! Didn’t you hear me the first time I said it?” 

Alfred sighs. He really has no idea what to do with Damian’s seeming complete lack of regret for taking someone’s life -- even in self defense situations, Alfred viewed it as a last resort, something you might do to  _ live  _ but would always regret. He’s unsure how Damian considers his kills as an assassin, if he regrets them because of the less ambiguous situation, or if he is still adamant that it was the right thing to do. If so, his only hope right now is that Damian wants to be Robin enough, wants to continue his father’s work enough, that he’ll abide the rules out of respect as he said. Perhaps it can be a “fake it ‘til you make it” approach. 

“Do you really care if Master Dick thinks you’re in the wrong?” Alfred asks.

“No! His opinion means nothing to me!”

_ Then why is this an issue _ ? Alfred wants to ask, even though he knows it won’t be the most constructive thing to say. 

“He thinks he has some type of authority in this house,” Damian continues with a sniff. “I don’t like it.”

“He is one of your legal guardians,” Alfred says. “Or he will be, soon.”

Damian’s scowl intensifies. 

“You don’t approve?”

“Of course I don’t. He’s not my father.”

“Nor is he trying to replace him,” Alfred says.

“ _ Tt _ . Tell that to  _ Gotham _ .”

“Acting as Batman is a necessity,” Alfred says, “But you can rest assured that Master Dick won’t try to replace Bruce for you.”

“I’d never know if he were,” Damian says a little sourly. “My time with my father…”

“Was cut short?” Alfred asks.

Damian narrows his eyes skeptically. “Yes,” he says eventually. “I didn’t have much time to get to know him.”

“I wish it were otherwise,” Alfred says.

“It hardly matters now,” Damian says. “We can’t change anything… can we?”

“Are you asking if we can bring your father back from the dead?” Alfred asks.

Damian nods sharply.

Alfred figures that this conversation was overdue. Damian’s probably witnessed, or at least heard of, Ra’s Al Ghul’s resurrections and immortality. “His body was too badly damaged for a Lazarus Pit to restore, even if we knew where one was,” Alfred says. “I’m sorry.”

Damian exhales quickly. He sits back down on the floor and gets back to his tinkering on the engine. “You’re dismissed, Pennyworth,” he says.

Alfred sighs heavily. Sometimes, Damian’s attitude rubbed him the wrong way. He was aware that his position as an employee -- a butler -- necessitated certain decorum and courtesy that most adults didn’t extend to each other. Keeping it up was a matter of pride for him, fulfilling his father’s wish and keeping the man he viewed as his son in good health for as long as he could. And while their position suggested a type of social inequality, he never felt as if Bruce or any of his adopted children or associates regarded him as anything but an equal. Damian has been… courteous to him so far, especially considering his conduct with almost everyone else, but Alfred is also acutely aware that Damian views him as someone he can dismiss -- and, given the conversations they had the  _ first  _ time Damian was here, he’s not sure how much autonomy Damian imagines a person of his status having. The boy had seemed to be surprised that Alfred was here under his own free will. 

However, since Damian obviously is getting lost in his work and Alfred doesn’t have anything else to do down here, he just goes back up to the penthouse. 

 

***

 

“Alfred, have you seen this?” is the first thing Dick says to Alfred when he gets back up to the penthouse. Dick is holding his smartphone in his hand, and on the screen, there’s a  _ Gotham Gazette _ article titled “Batman foils arms dealers”. There’s no photo of Batman included, of course. Batman does his best work in the dark.

“I have not,” Alfred says, “But it looks like you’re taking to the work quickly.” 

Dick shakes his head. “That’s not  _ me _ . I told you, I was taking a week off to get healed up and make sure that Damian does the same.”

Alfred frowns and then sighs heavily. “I thought we were past this, then,” he says. “Were there any casualties?”

“No.”

“Then we know it’s not Jason,” Alfred says, even though a part of him -- a small part --  _ does  _ want it to be Jason. He wants Jason to be interested in reform. Intellectually, he knows it’s probably way past time, but he still thinks of Jason as the sixteen-year-old boy who was taken before his time. It’s not something he’d shared with Bruce -- he’d mostly told Bruce to not blame himself for the state of things when Jason was wreaking havoc on Gotham. He hadn’t aired any of his own concerns; he almost felt as if he wasn’t  _ allowed  _ to. When Bruce was hurting, he almost always assured that everyone else was wrapped up in the magnitude of his pain that it was all they could focus on or talk about, no matter how dire their own situations were, as he did when Barbara’s father was shot. Alfred is sure Bruce has never done it  _ intentionally _ , but that doesn’t change the results -- that there are some things that his colleagues or friends will never disclose to him.

“No,” Dick says eventually. “It’s not Jason. But it’s still a variable we have to figure out.”

“On the note of those,” Alfred says, “Are you taking Damian into the field?”

Dick rubs his face and sighs heavily. “I’m not sure…” he says.

Alfred waits. He figures that Dick will articulate this at his own pace. 

“I want to take him out with me -- at least as much as anyone can  _ want  _ to have the responsibility of a ten-year-old in heavy gunfire. If he’s going to insist on fighting, which is likely, given his upbringing, I think it’d be good for him to do some good. But… I can’t just sit back and watch him kill people.”

“Nor should you,” Alfred says.

“How did he seem?” Dick asks. “I mean, you talked to him after I left.”

Alfred pauses before answering. Despite his assumption that he’s good at reading children, there's something very  _ difficult  _ to articulate about Damian. “He was adamant that he didn’t regret his actions, but the situation seemed to be genuine self defense. He said that it was the only way to extract the hostage without her getting killed.”

Dick looks down. 

“Do you know what  _ you  _ would do in that situation?” Alfred asks.

“I hope I never have to find out,” Dick says. “So what do you recommend?”

“Training. It’s unsurprising this came up, Master Dick. While Damian’s a much more formidable combatant than you were at the beginning of your time as Robin, you had six months of training in  _ non lethal  _ combat. Damian’s had ten years of learning how to kill his enemies and, as far as I can tell, very little training in learning how to  _ spare  _ them.”

“Damn,” Dick says. He runs a hand through his hair. “So this is on us, then? We should have caught this way earlier, that he couldn’t do it. The training room must have not been hard enough, he didn’t need to resort to lethal force there -- ”

“Just, stop,” Alfred says. He is entirely tired of the people in his care acting as if they can control the world, and as if when anything bad should happen due to an inaction or oversight or merely not being clairvoyant, it’s a sin on their part. “You can’t get stuck in ‘what-ifs’. We know the problem. We know the solution. I think our time would be better spent  _ enacting  _ it, rather than beating ourselves up.”

Dick sighs heavily. “You’re right,” he says. 

“I often am.”

Dick grins. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never.”

“I’ll start looking into how to do this. Though I can already imagine what he’ll say in response to more training.”

Dick starts to leave, and Alfred grabs his shoulder, stopping him a moment. “This will work,” he says. “I think that if anyone can bring out the best in him, it’s you, Master Dick.”

Dick nods a little, still smiling, though his eyebrows are pulled in a little from the sudden change in Alfred’s tone. “No pressure then, huh?”

“None whatsoever.” 

***

 

It’s at a quiet dinner of chicken and jalapeño sandwiches when Alfred decides that they should  _ probably  _ get out of the apartment.

Damian hasn’t left since his rather disastrous walk earlier; it can’t be good for morale. Dick has been out occasionally to check on his friends, but never for long. And with the boys mostly inside, Alfred hasn’t really had an excuse to leave other than for shopping for the necessities or brief walks to clear his head. He figures it’s about time for that to change.

Damian ate fairly quickly, Alfred’s yet to find something that Damian wishes to savor, instead he seems to treat most of his cooking as fuel. He’s about to leave when Alfred stops him.

“I’m thinking,” Alfred says, “That we should go to the theatre tonight. There’s a showing of an adaption of Antigone.”

“Theatre?” Dick asks, mouth still full of sandwich.

Damian shoots him a judgemental look. 

“Sorry,” Dick says after swallowing. Then, he asks again, “Theatre?”

Alfred nods. “Unless there’s a movie you really wish to see.”

“What if we don’t want to see either?” Damian asks.

“Is there something you’d prefer to do out of the house?” Alfred asks.

“Patrol.”

Alfred sighs. He really should have expected that. “Well, what do you do for  _ fun _ , Master Damian? It can’t be all training, school, and patrol.”

Damian sidesteps the question. “I don’t need to go out to see that play anyway, Pennyworth, I’ve already read it. Both the Sophocles and Anouilh version.”

Alfred touches his hand to his chest. Who could possibly suggest that reading words on a page could ever replace seeing them come alive on stage? And besides, while the playwright’s  _ script  _ is always the same, each  _ interpretation  _ lends its own unique twist. “But surely they’re different in the environment where they’re meant to be performed,” Alfred says. “Each play is written with the expectation of having a live audience.”

Damian looks at Dick skeptically. 

“Alfred used to be an actor,” Dick says. “He’s pretty enthused about this.”

“I thought you used to be a soldier,” Damian says.

“I used to be  _ both _ , Master Damian. I have a wide repertoire of skills under my belt.” 

Damian’s eyes are still narrowed, still somewhat questioning.

“I think a play’s a great idea,” Dick says. He looks down at Damian. “So, you already read the play?”

“Of course! Did you?”

Dick shakes his head.

Still, Alfred is thinking that perhaps this is something they can talk about. Something outside of costumed hero work and school. “And on which side of the fence were your sympathies?”

“Antigone’s.”

That surprised Alfred, and it must have shown on his face, because Damian says, “You imagined it’d be Creon.” 

“I will confess to that being my initial thought,” Alfred says. Creon the tyrant, he was going to say, though he’s not entirely sure that Damian would concur the rule was tyrannical, even if he sympathized with young Antigone. 

Damian snorts. “Order’s a noble goal, but Antigone was willing to die for her family. Her blood.” 

Dick makes a motion of his hand going over his head. “And, for those of us who haven’t read the play…”

Alfred smiles a little. “We can see it tonight. Then you’ll be able to partake in the discussion.”

“Fine,” Damian says. “We can go out to see Antigone. But it really doesn’t matter, I already know what Grayson will say.”

Dick grins. “So, we stay in, Alfred and I talk about the play, but Damian plays the part of me because he knows it so well.”

“I know your  _ opinion _ , you giant oaf! You’re very predictable.”

“Oaf?” Dick pantomimes offense in jest. “I’ve never been called an oaf before.”

Damian is not having as much fun as he is. “You are an infuriating man,” he says.

Still, for a moment, Alfred can’t help but relax at the encounter. It’s almost normal, almost just brotherly teasing. 

“Well, I excel in infuration, so you’re going to have to get that down in your character study,” Dick says. He looks quickly at Alfred. “That  _ is  _ a term they use in acting, right?”

“I look forward to arriving at the theatre because then you will have to  _ shut up _ ,” Damian snaps. 

Alfred sighs and shakes his head and gets his jacket from the door. “Come on, boys,” he says. Dick makes a quick jokes about being young enough to still be a boy, and for the rest of the evening, everything seems as if it is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think one of my regrets when doing Batman and Son Rewrite was not having any chapters from Alfred's POV, so I made sure to include on here. He is a very _very_ hard character for me to get the internal monologue of, because he winds up taking care of everyone else a lot and the narrative doesn't focus a ton on what he does in his free time or to take care of himself. I also had no clue whether he'd call people by their names or "Master + names" in his internal monologue, but I obviously chose the first one. The second one just seemed a little weird to me. 
> 
> It was also hard for me to find out exactly how he thought of Jason, but I went with the interpretation that he cares about him like he does all of the other people who were under his care temporarily or permanently. I read some of Jason as Robin comics and watched the under the red hood movie (and red the comic for it) but I can't remember getting anything conclusive from them. 
> 
> I included play stuff at the end because I wanted us to be able to focus on something Alfred likes for himself, not just for taking care of people. And for Alfred's "how can you suggest that reading a play and seeing it" are the same thing, I just channeled one of my college professors (who studied theatre a lot) and was very adamant that one keep in mind the fact that plays are intended to be a visual medium. I also hope I didn't butcher the Antigone talk too much considering I read it once a couple years ago, but I wanted the characters to be able to talk about a play and it seemed like something Damian might have opinions on (I hope all relevant information is included in the fic and it's not too alienating if you didn't read it)
> 
> heads up: next update might take a little longer, because I recently got a temporary but high stress job that's taking a good deal of my brainpower.


	9. This time, do it right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara practices some sparring and learns some surprising things about Batgirl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone hasn't read it or heard of it, the events Cassandra and Barbara mention in this chapter reference War Games, a comic crossover storyline where Stephanie Brown got killed off (But brought back later as it was revealed her death was faked)

Barbara twirls her escrimas, one in each hand, and prepares to fight.

Across from her is Cassandra, in black leggings and a purple hoodie. She’s  _ also  _ holding escrimas, and the two of them are sparring in Barbara’s temporarily empty living room -- all the furniture has been moved to the kitchen.

Despite the low stakes of the situation, it’s the hardest fight Barbara has had in a while.

Cassandra steps in, just testing her movement, and Barbara rolls back by pressing the heel of her palms on her tires and pushing forwards -- after all, she can hardly grip the handrim while holding her weapons. 

Cass steps in again, this time with a swing of her weapon, and Barbara doesn’t bother rolling back. She holds her positions, ducks, and swings a stick and Cassandra’s stomach. There’s a  _ crack  _ of wood meeting wood, Cassandra blocking the attack with her other arm, and Barbara attempts to wrap one of her arms around Cass’s extended arm for an armbar, but Cass moves too fast -- she turns it into a backfist to the bridge of Barbara’s nose. The blow doesn’t actually touch, but Barbara can feel the whip of wind by her face. Point for Cassandra.

They each move a pace back and prepare to go again.

“How’s my telegraphing?” Barbara asks. If anyone can tell you what you’re telegraphing, it’s Cassandra, with her body-language reading ability.

“You’re… doing it?” Cassandra says, voice raising on the end to indicate a question. She scratches her head a little. “ _ Everyone  _ telegraphs to me, Barbara. I can’t  _ not  _ see it.”

Barbara sighs. True, but not exactly what she was looking for advice on. “What’s worse than the rest?”

Cassandra furrows her brow slightly. Barbara can already tell she’s going to ask for clarification -- they spent long enough together while Cassandra was still learning how to talk that their nonverbal conversations could be just as fulfilling as their verbal ones -- albeit a lot less precise. 

“I’m trying to improve my fighting,” Barbara confesses. “You helped Dinah, I figured…”  _ I figured you could help me _ . Would that sound fake or weak? After all,  _ Barbara  _ was supposed to be  _ Cassandra’s  _ mentor. 

Cassandra doesn’t comment on it, though, she just nods intensely. “I see,” she says. She gestures at Barbara’s chair and says, “May I?”

Barbara raises an eyebrow, but Cassandra doesn’t clarify, she just waits patiently.

“You want to use my chair?” Barbara asks.

Cassandra nods again.

Barbara sighs and rolls over to her sad couch, halfway in the kitchen and halfway in the living room. She transfers over and slides the chair to Cassandra.

Cass has asked to borrow her chair once or twice before. After she’d first become Batgirl, and she was a member of the ‘family’, she’d occasionally watch Barbara in her apartment as she rolled around, as if she were committing her movement to memory. Barbara had offered her the chair then -- transferred over and slid it to her. Even without understanding the words Barbara was telling her, Cass had gotten the offer and hopped in, and started sliding it back and forth, spinning around, getting used to it and just… having fun with a new experience.

Now, Cass isn’t looking to have fun. Barbara can tell as Cass, still holding her own escrimas, starts shifting her weight around, getting used to how it makes the chair move. Her eyebrows are set in determination as she’s working out whatever her current idea is.

Barbara doesn’t  _ say  _ so out loud, because she did come to Cassandra for advice, but she’s not sure that if Cass has any idea for how to use a wheelchair in combat, she’ll take it. To the best of her knowledge, Cassandra doesn’t even know how to get up or down a curb in a wheelchair, much less fight in one.

“What are you doing?” Barbara asks finally.

“Trying to mimic you,” Cass confesses. She stands up and rolls the chair back over to Barbara, who immediately transfers back in. It’s not like she  _ minds  _ being out of her wheelchair, at least not around friends. But it’s always more comforting to be able to move quickly if you have to.

Cassandra touches her hand to her chin and composes her thoughts. “You seem to telegraph more when you’re about to move,” she says eventually, “and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the way you do it, or… a psycho -- psych -- mind issue.”

Barbara sighs. A mind issue indeed. She doesn’t know whether to  _ hope  _ that’s the case, because then it will be easy to fix -- with any luck, or to not because… well, who would want to hear that their problem with their fighting is their own head?

“I have some old tapes,” Barbara says. “Of me fighting a year or so ago. Do you think you could compare them?”

Cassandra nods eagerly.

Barbara retrieves the tapes.

***

Some more tape watching and training later, and Cass has identified that it  _ definitely  _ is a psychological issue on Barbara’s part. She didn’t  _ say  _ so directly, but she did point out that Barbara telegraphed a lot less on her movement earlier. She wasn’t  _ thinking  _ about being in the chair, she was just being in it. 

Which is weird, because as far as Barbara can tell, she  _ doesn’t  _ think about using a wheelchair to get around. As far as she knows, no long-time wheelchair user does, unless there’s a tall curb or some asshole who parked the end of their pickup truck over the sidewalk, necessitating in some creative wheelie-ing through grass. 

But, she supposes, like she confessed to Dick earlier, she  _ was  _ thinking about how it affected her in combat a lot lately. She sort of blames not having any mission to focus on, which she supposes was kind of her own fault -- after all, she was there when the Birds disbanded and went through with it, mostly because she felt like she was making too many mistakes. Ad now with no Birds and the situation in Gotham is pretty much back to normal her life is pretty  _ boring _ . She still keeps an eye on organized crime, obviously, but nothing takes up as much of her time as it used to.  _ Some  _ time to yourself is good, but too much of it, and you start getting cabin fever. 

…

That  _ probably  _ shouldn’t be something that makes you feel anxious. 

She figures all of this would be making Cassandra feel  _ extra  _ anxious. After all, she hasn’t seen Cassandra’s Batgirl suit go online since they finished rounding up most of the escapees from Arkham, and Cass  _ lives  _ for Batgirl. Even more so than Bruce, she found absolutely no point in having a secret identity or off time. When Bruce turned one of Barbara and Cass’s vacations into a mission, Barbara was pissed. Cassandra was relieved.

Right now, with Barbara’s still looking over her tapes at the kitchen table. Cassandra finished moving the furniture back about fifteen minutes ago and is now sitting at her kitchen table and picking at an exceptionally interesting piece of white paint on Barbara’s wall -- well, it  _ used  _ to be white paint. Now there’s just a hole of the color from the previous paint job -- green. 

“Are you nervous?” Barbara asks, because she has noticed that Cassandra gets fidgety when she’s nervous. But Cass just shakes her head.

“Is something wrong?” Barbara asks.

Cass presses her lips into a thin line. She shakes her head, then stands up quickly enough her chair is shoved back. “I should go,” she says. “Training.”

“Wait.”

Cass waits, and Barbara tries to think of the right thing to say. “I didn’t just ask you here so you could do a favor for me,” she says. “Cassandra, I’ve… missed you.”

Cassandra furrows her brows slightly in a question.

“We haven’t seen each other much in the past  _ two years _ ,” Barbara says, because they haven’t. Not since Barbara moved out of Gotham and Cassandra started operating more independently. 

“I’ve… missed you too,” Cassandra says, almost echoing back her exact cadence. There’s a pause at the end, though, Cassandra’s still holding a breath like she’s about to speak but not saying anything. Barbara waits for the  _ but _ .

“But,” Cassandra says, “We have work to do.”

“What work? I know you haven’t been Batgirl lately, the suit hasn’t been online for the past week.”’

Cassandra sighs heavily and purses her lips. Barbara can tell  _ something’s  _ on her mind, she’s just not saying what. With Cass, she never knows whether she just doesn’t want to talk about it, or she can’t find the words.

It must be the second one, because instead of speaking out loud, Cassandra signs in ASL  _ do you think Batgirl is enough? _

Barbara doesn’t answer. When Cassandra was making name signs for everyone, she suggested the one relating to their superhero identities -- Bruce was always  _ Batman _ (fitting), Tim  _ Robin _ , and Barbara  _ Oracle _ . So in this case,  _ Batgirl  _ could also mean  _ Cassandra _ .

Is Batgirl enough? Or am I, Cassandra, enough? Barbara wonders. Which one is she asking?

_ What makes you ask that _ ? Barbara asks eventually.

Cassandra shrugs.  _ Nightwing obviously doesn’t think that Nightwing is enough. _

Barbara sighs. The Dick as Batman thing. Of course. 

_ You’re just as scary as Batman, trust me _ , Barbara says.  _ You don’t need a costume change. You can just be Batgirl. _

Cassandra shakes her head.

Barbara sighs.  _ Okay, why not? _

_ I gave the costume away. _

“What?” Barbara asks out loud, unable to contain herself. She rubs the bridge of her nose, sliding her glasses up her face, then signs,  _ Why did you give the costume away? _

Cassandra shrugs, but the way she looks away tells Barbara that she  _ does  _ know, she just doesn’t want to tell her.

Cassandra walks over to the window, keeping her back to Barbara, leaving spoken words as the only option for communication at the moment. Or maybe, she’d prefer  _ no  _ communication. She’s just looking down at the traffic.

“Cassandra,” Barbara prods her after about a minute. 

Cassandra turns around in response, and there’s an uncomfortable familiar tension in her face, eyebrows pitched up in the center and knitted with worry, eyes widened slightly with a slight sheen of tears, mouth pressed in a straight line like she’s trying to stop herself from saying something and she looks so sad for a moment that Barbara can’t help but wheel towards her. She offers a hand out towards her, and Cassandra wavers slightly. She reaches towards her like she’s about to accept the gesture of comfort and then steps back, rubbing at her face quickly like she can just wipe the expression off.

She starts trying to sign something  _ You  _ \--  _ you think _ \-- and her hands keep jumbling up. Eventually, she leans against the wall and slumps to the floor.

Barbara leans forward, but doesn’t step closer to her -- she doesn’t want to overwhelm her, and Cass is  _ obviously  _ on the edge of being overwhelmed right now. 

Cassandra leans her head back, takes a deep breath, and then tries again:  _ Do you think that if we were there for Spoiler, she wouldn’t have gotten injured? _

Well, if that isn’t a punch to the gut. Barbara takes off her glasses and rubs her own eyes not because she has no answer for the question, but because she  _ does  _ and the answer is --

_ Probably _ , Barbara signs, hating that she has to say it.

Cassandra rests her arms on her knees then her head on her arms and sighs sadly.

Barbara blinks back tears.

She can’t forget. It’s impossible for her to. So she remembers each time Stephanie came to one of them for training, clearly wanting to help and be helped and included so damn hard, and --

Well, eventually, everyone turned her away. Bruce had issued various multiple edicts forbidding people from including her, he took her in as Robin then fired her for disobeying orders. She wanted to learn and be included and prove she could do it  _ so bad _ … and everyone told her she couldn’t. At the time, Barbara thought that it made sense. 

Barbara taps Cass’s shoulder, trying to get her attention. When she looks up at her, Barbara signs  _ What brings this up? _

Cass shrugs a little. 

_ Batgirl… _ Barbara signs

Cassandra sighs heavily again.  _ I gave the Batgirl suit to her. Spoiler. _

Barbara blinks.  _ You  _ what _?  _ she asks, spreading her hands further for emphasis. 

Cassandra just repeats herself.  _ I gave Spoiler the Batgirl suit. _

_ Why? _

Cassandra purses her lips. 

Barbara rubs the bridge of her nose. She can’t believe Cass did this. She says,  _ But she could get killed -- for real this time! _

Cassandra shakes her head and stands up.  _ Not this time. This time, we do it  _ right _. _

Barbara supposes this is her fault for admitting they did it  _ wrong  _ before. But…

_ What does  _ right  _ entail, Batgirl? _

_ Help,  _ Cassandra signs.  _ Training.  _ She starts another sentence but trails off before Barbara can tell what she was going to say.

_ Yes? _ Barbara asks.

_ She was my friend,  _ Cassandra says.

And Barbara sighs heavily and shuts her eyes. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? A chance to see her friend again, but this time, do it  _ right _ .

_ I’ll see her, _ Barbara says.  _ I’ll see Spoiler. But Batgirl…? _

Cassandra merely nods, indicating Barbara should continue with her question.

_ What will  _ you  _ be doing? _

_ Cassandra grins and opens the window behind her, ready to scale down the side of the wall. And as she leaves, she signs  _ Secret. _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I figured I should post this before I wuss out and stop posting for a month again. I haven't gotten as much of a backlog as I like to have since I started my new job, but I've got some.
> 
> No guys this chapter! I figured we could have an actual Barbara POV chapter since she's focused in one of the relationship tags at the top of the work. Granted, it's not Dick and Babs, but Babs also deserves a chance to get back on her feet before hopping into a relationship.
> 
> I also changed the dynamic between Cass and Steph and Babs slightly because from what I could tell, Steph's Batgirl run just started with Cass leaving the scene at the speed of sound (which I heard was cuz of editorial mandates? but who knows). I figure if the Batfam has an residual guilt over Steph's death (since Bats was being pretty damn shitty around this time), it might be a good time to bring it up and maybe take a stab at being for her this time.


	10. Proteges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Barbara discuss proteges

_ “I’ll make life impossible for you, Dick. Whatever workout routine you had in the circus, triple it -- then triple it again!”  _

__ That was the first thing Bruce had told Dick once he started being Robin. A warning, letting him know what he was in for. Letting him not that in no circumstances, should Dick expect it to be easy, but Dick didn’t care. He didn’t want it to be easy, he just wanted to stop other people’s lives from being torn apart like his was. And now, Dick has to figure out how to train a Robin of his own.

He’s not going to be tripling or nonupling Damian’s League of Shadows workouts, that’s for sure. He has no clue where they fall on the scale of intensity to Batman approved workouts, but it doesn’t really matter. When he saw Damian practicing the first time, before he allowed him out in the field at all, he could tell that physically, Damian was in better shape than any of the other Robins had been when they just started -- unsurprising, considering he spent his entire life training. So, once Damian heals up, Dick’s not worried about Damian having to prepare to condition himself  _ physically _ for combat. 

No, instead he’s worried about other stuff -- like Damian getting injured not because of lack of skill on his part, but because of lack of  _ cautiousness _ . His first night out, he’d snuck out alone, and Dick gets the idea that Damian merely tolerates him, rather than accepting he can be someone who can protect him. Dick’s pretty sure that if he  _ did  _ tell Damian it was his job to protect him, he’d get chewed out for ‘patronizing’ or ‘coddling’ him again.

Then there’s protecting  _ everyone else  _ from Damian. Dick wants to believe that Damian’s genuinely going to try to not kill anyone, but that doesn’t change the fact that it seems like it’s an option he’d resort to, if he doesn’t see any other way to solve the problem. And then there’s the fact that it seems like Damian’s completely unwilling to regret his actions or even admit to doing anything wrong. Dick almost wants to ask Damian if he feels the same way about his kills in the League of Shadows, but he’s worried about the answer he’ll get.

Still, right now, he’s focusing on the problem he  _ can  _ solve. That’s training Damian to find a way to end extremely difficult conflicts without resorting to lethal force. He talked to Alfred about it, and they’ve decided the best way is probably a combination of regular sparring with Dick, and as many dummies and cardboard pop-ups and fake guns or rubber projectile launchers they can get from the old Batcave’s training room. 

Wayne Manor is quiet when Dick gets there. It’s only been about two weeks since they left for the penthouse, but Dick’s still surprised to see the grass cut and the yard in good shape, despite the fact that there hasn’t been  _ nearly  _ enough time for it to overgrow -- if Alfred would ever let it. To the best of Dick’s knowledge, Alfred never told the gardeners or the people who mow the lawn to stop coming by, and he probably never would -- Dick’s pretty sure the idea of letting the Wayne Manor fall into disrepair would give Alfred a heart attack.

When Dick opens up the grandfather clock to go down to the Batcave, he notices a slight light emanating from it, giving the long staircase a faint green cast -- which is  _ not  _ normal. He remembered shutting off everything but the security system when he left.

Carefully and silently, he creeps down the staircase on the balls of his feet, keeping his weight light. If someone broke into the Batcave, he has to sneak up on them and take them out before they see him -- on the off chance they got here by luck, and not finding out that Batman is connected to Bruce Wayne.

_ Yeah, just stumbling around into random caves near the Wayne Manor. Totally a coincidence… _

Dick reaches the bottom of the staircase and turns a corner, only to completely deflate. There’s no  _ enemy  _ in the Batcave. Just Barbara, hunched over a bench and working intensely on something, with her back to him.

“Barbara, how’d you get in here?”

“Same way as you -- by knowing the security codes.”

She hasn’t even looked up at him. He walks around to the front of her. Sprawled out on the table is some type of suit -- kevlar plating forming half a breastplate, and circuitry on the inside Barbara’s welding to it. She has on goggles, protecting her eyes from the light, and her long red hair is tied up in a bun. 

“Is that for me?” Dick asks, keeping his voice light so she knows he’s not one hundred percent serious. He leans against the table, and says, “Because I know I could use a suit upgrade -- “

“So do it yourself,” Barbara says sharply. “And move your hand unless you want it welded to the table.”

Dick stands up. He can’t tell exactly, but Barbara feels a  _ little  _ off right now -- or more of, she’s been  _ off  _ for weeks. She admitted that to him right after Bruce died. Everything conspiring to make her feel more insecure. And Dick knows that if he tries to comfort her, he’ll only make it worse. She’ll think he’s saying she can’t do it alone, when all he  _ wants  _ to say is that she doesn’t have to.

“Sorry,” Barbara says after a moment. She turns off her mini-torch and pushes the goggles up on her face. “It’s just… not a good time.”

“When is it ever?” Dick asks, mostly because it  _ feels  _ true, but he still gets an exasperated look for the comment.

Dick sits on the opposite side of the table as Babs, just in case she’s wanting space. Babs runs her hands over her face and sighs.

“I thought you were out of the Batcave,” she says eventually.

“I’m just getting some supplies,” Dick says. “For training Damian.”

Barbara nods with her mouth pressed in a thin line. Dick always got the idea she disapproved slightly of the general concept of Robin -- not the individuals, but the little kid following Batman into heavy gunfire part. She helped everyone in the superhero community, but as the leader of the Birds of Prey, she really didn’t employ minors a bunch -- the closest was Charlie helping out in some tight situations, and from what Dick  _ heard _ , she always preferred to keep the teenager out of the field when she could. “I guess additional training makes sense,” she says a little tersely.

“Yup,” Dick says. Palpable awkwardness fills the air, and he tries to change the topic: “So, if the suit  _ isn’t  _ for me, who’s it for?”

A long silence on Barbara’s part. She shifts off of the bench seat at the table and onto her wheelchair and wheels back a pace, putting some space in between them. She takes a breath and lets it out, and finally says, “Stephanie.”

Dick stands up so fast he bangs his knee on the table. “ _ Stephanie?! _ ” he asks.

Barbara holds her hands out. “I know, I know, that was my reaction at first, too.”

“Barbara, are you forgetting that Stephanie started a gang war that killed lots of people -- and  _ almost  _ killed her?”

“I don’t  _ forget  _ anything, Dick.” 

“Then that makes building her a new Spoiler suit  _ really  _ weird!” 

Barbara narrows her eyes and lowers her eyebrows and gives Dick a look that says now is  _ so  _ not the time. Dick doesn’t really care. Things are hard enough to manage right now without throwing someone as unpredictable and untrained as Stephanie into the mix. “That gang war was  _ Bruce’s  _ plan,” Barbara says.

“That he never was going to use!”   
“Okay, let’s make a list -- any time one of Bruce’s schemes actually  _ helped  _ us, versus all of the times they hurt us!” She holds up a hand and starts listing them off: “Brother Eye, his files on the Justice League, War Games -- ”

Dick can’t help but look away. He can’t believe she’s  _ doing  _ this right now. “You’re really bringing this up? When he’s gone?”

“When should I then?”

_ Never _ , Dick wants to say. He’s perfectly content just -- well, not listing off all of Bruce’s flaws when he’s not even here to defend himself. “How did this wind up about Bruce, anyway?” Dick asks. “I  _ thought  _ we were talking about Stephanie. Do you want to wind up burying her again?”

“At least Stephanie’s old enough to drive!” 

Dick swallows. All of a sudden, he just feels tired. He doesn’t even know how things escalated with Babs, how they started arguing. “Is that what this is about, Babs? Do you not like me working with Damian?”

Barbara grinds her teeth. Dick guess she’s trying to work on winding down herself, now that she noticed he’s no longer matching her intensity. She exhales slowly, then says, “That’s not what it’s about at all, Dick. It has  _ nothing  _ to do with you and Robin and everything to do with me and Stephanie. So please, trust my judgement on this the same way I’m trusting yours.”

Dick looks down. “All right,” he says. “All right, let’s just agree to trust each other’s judgement on our… non conventional choices of proteges.” 

Barbara rubs her face. She smiles a little, then says, “ _ Can  _ I ask you a question, though? Not trying to make a ‘gotcha’ or start a fight, just… curiosity.”

Dick sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Go for it.”

“Aren’t you even the littlest bit worried about taking a child into the field?”

Well, isn’t that right to the heart of it.

“Obviously,” Dick says. He chuckles a little, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, I’d be a pretty  _ shitty  _ temporary guardian if I wasn’t. Especially since Damian’s already been shot. But…”

He trails off, trying to find the words, and for her part, Babs just lets him search.

“But Damian’s not a normal kid,” Dick says eventually. “He’s not like I was when I just started, or Jason, or Tim, or Steph. From what Bruce told me back when that whole Ra’s Al Ghul thing was going on, he was subject to the exact same training that the adult League of Shadows members were -- meaning he’s already been in the field, and already killed people -- Bruce  _ told  _ me, he said that he’d killed too many people to remember.”

Barbara swallows and clenches her jaw. “Damn.”

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly.”

“So your logic is you can’t make him more messed up than he already is?”

Dick sighs. “Not even a little. It means -- I don’t know, I don’t know if Damian even can go ‘cold turkey’ on fighting. I tried to suggest normal school to him, and he said something about being lightyears ahead of his peers, and I tried to suggest that one Dinah mentioned -- the one for kids who were raised with violent backgrounds -- ”

“That  _ sounds  _ like it’d be ideal,” Barbara says.

“Yeah, well he sounded pretty uninterested. I figure this way -- I don’t know, he feels like he’s continuing his father’s legacy. Which… Is important for him, I guess,” Dick says. He’s not quite sure  _ why _ , considering Damian seemed to dislike Bruce’s moral code, but it’s clear that he at least wanted his dad to like him. “And besides, I’m not sure that he’d have stayed if I tried to make him act like a normal kid. At least now, I know someone’s looking out for him.”

Barbara pushes her glasses up on her face and rubs the bridge of her nose. “I get it,” she says. “You’re raising a kid you have no control over, so you kind of just -- sort of hope you push things in the right direction.”

Dick frowns a little at her phrasing --  _ raising  _  a kid -- because to the best of his knowledge, it was never his intention to raise any kids, much less Bruce’s biological son who has more baggage than Gotham Airport.

“Yeah, you’re reticent,” Barbara says, even though Dick didn’t  _ say  _ anything out loud. She could tell. “You said you were his  _ temporary _ guardian, Dick. Not his legal guardian.”

Dick rubs the back of his neck. Damn that eidetic memory of hers. “I guess,” he says.

Barbara sighs heavily. “Bruce isn’t coming back, Dick. There’s not really anyone you can shove off this responsibility to.”

Like Dick doesn’t know that. “I’m not trying to shove it off, Barbara, I’m just -- ”

“Not ready for it?” Barbara asks.

Dick shakes his head. He knows he  _ needs  _ to be ready for it, he knew that once Damian got shot. But he says, “I don’t know. Not  _ wanting  _ it.”

“You better not tell Damian that,” Barbara says. “Not much messes up a kid more than feeling like they’re not wanted.”

“I’m pretty sure he hates me, anyway.”

Barbara sighs. “That sounds fun.”

“Oh, it is, believe me,” Dick says. 

Barbara seems to be letting a little stress out of her posture, her shoulders are a little less high, and Dick figures he should get this out of the way while they’re on the topic. “So,” he says, “now that we’re talking like reasonable adults, instead of… stressed out adults… do you mind if  _ I  _ ask  _ you  _ a question?”

Barbara smiles slightly. “I guess that’s fair.”

“Aren’t you even a little worried about Stephanie?”

Barbara sighs. “Of course I’m worried, Dick. I’m not ever  _ not  _ worried when I send out an operative into the field. Especially since a distressingly high number of them seem to start out viewing orders as gentle suggestions.”

“I know,” Dick says, while mentally trying to figure out if  _ he  _ ever did that. Not like she’d ordered him around, but still. “But isn’t it different with Stephanie?”

“What do you mean?” Barbara asks. “Because she got hurt earlier? Because she doesn’t have as many years of hero-ing under her belt?”

Dick doesn’t answer. Honestly, it’s very hard for him to remember a  _ lot  _ of what went on during the Gotham gang war except for his crushing guilt and worry that Bruce would find out what he did to Blockbuster -- or more of, what he  _ didn’t  _ stop from happening.  But he still remembers that it was bad, that civilians and kids were getting killed, and the horrifying knowledge that it wasn’t one of the crime lords who started this -- it was one of  _ them _ . 

“What if someone gets hurt?” Dick asks.

“Dick, can you tell me  _ who  _ you’re really worried about? Stephanie, or someone else?”

Dick shrugs weakly. He doesn’t want this to end up in another fight, and he  _ does  _ want to believe that Barbara knows what she’s doing -- no, he doesn’t  _ want  _ to trust her, he  _ does _ . He just doesn’t really trust Steph yet, and he gets the idea that not trusting one of Barbara’s operatives equates to not trusting her in her mind. 

“I trust that everyone’s going to do what they think is right, but that doesn’t mean they’ll always make the right decisions.”

Barbara raises an eyebrow. “So you don’t trust Stephanie.” It’s not a question.

Dick nods slowly.

“You know whose idea this was?” Babs asks, crossing her arms.

“Stephanie’s?” 

“ _ Cassandra’s _ ,” Barbara says. “She thought we weren’t there for her enough, and maybe she’s right. Surely you can sympathize with wanting to be  _ there  _ for someone, even if they’ve done things you don’t agree with in the past.”

Dick holds his hands up. “All right, all right, I sympathize,” he says. “Is that what you want?”

Barbara smiles slightly. “Yes,” she says. “Now, what did you  _ actually  _ come down to the Batcave for?”

Dick sighs. He figures that if she wants to, Barbara can throw his worry about Stephanie back in his face when he admits he’s trying to train Damian so he doesn’t resort to killing people. But she doesn’t. She just has some good suggestions -- like getting her holo-room out of storage, so that Damian can practice checking his blows against someone who looks and acts like an enemy -- and volunteers to help him set it up in the Batbunker. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay end of chapter notes:
> 
> Unsure if this chapter was too boring, being mostly just talking, but I figured it was important for Dick and Babs to talk about this.
> 
> Dick and Babs's Stephanie versus Damian thing is based somewhat on their dynamic in Steph's batgirl run (at the beginning). Dick's beef with Steph seemed to be reckless and untrained, Babs's seemed to be thinking Damian was a jerk (and killed people). Since he hasn't rubbed her too much the wrong way yet (which I imagine he does by being mean to Steph :P) her reticence here is in the form of him being 10 freaking years old. She didn't seem to have many teen superheroes around in BoP (IIRC, Infinity says "I wasn't aware you employed minors" when she meets Misfit and Babs is like "... I don't." because she tried to keep Misfit out of the field for the most part).
> 
> More misc details:
> 
> Dick doesn't remember much of Gotham Gang War, because from what I remember, he was dissociating pretty badly in the Nightwing comics around that time (90s-100).
> 
> I was conflicted about putting the part about Dick not wanting Damian in, because everyone loves how close they are later on, but at first it did kind of seem like that. IIRC in Batman and Robin he's like "There's something about that snide aristocratic sneer, supervillain smile, something" blah blah and then "if we don't save him, who is gonna?" so it seemed like he felt an obligation to Damian but wasn't super thrilled about it. TBH I like that better than them being super close from the beginning because it contrasts even more with how they wind up later on.


	11. Homesick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quiet breakfast where Dick talks about training and Damian instructs Alfred on which tea to make.

_ It’s five weeks before Damian Al Ghul’s seventh birthday, and he hasn’t seen his mother in two months. He’s been out -- training, being escorted around the world by Grandfather’s assassins and his sniping instructor, since it was time to test his skills in a real world situation -- after all, merely sitting at the range in one of Grandfather’s headquarters can’t possibly mimic the sneakery you’ll have to do to get to your perch, the importance of your camouflage, or the patience required as you waited hours for your target. No, that required an active, non-training combat situation, so that is what Damian was given, once he had mastered the basics. _

__ _ When they finally get back to Al Ghul Island, Damian’s sniping instructor debriefs his mother on his progress -- and she dismisses him to go back to his previous duties, since the instructor was a former soldier employed by the League of Shadows, rather than a kidnapped expert. It wasn’t necessary to dispose of him now that Damian’s done with him.  _

__ __ _ Only after Mother dismisses the instructor does she come and see Damian. Damian stands up a bit straighter and balances his rifle bag right next to him, as if the thing weren’t taller than him by 10 centimeters.  _

__ _ “Damian,” she says, smiling warmly. “I hear you’ve done well.” _

__ _ “Thank you, Mother.” _

__ _ “Don’t thank me. This is your victory. You fought for it. You earned it.” _

__ _ Damian suppresses a smile and merely follows his mother as she turns and walks back into the palace. Like everything his grandfather owns, the living area is elegant, decorated in one of the many styles that had come and gone in Grandfather’s lifetimes. The door frames are rounded arches and curtains let in the ocean breeze. Damian breathes in the smell deeply and pans his vision, taking in everything in the palace, as if he can carve it into his memory so he’ll never miss it again. Two months was too long to be gone, though he would never admit that out loud.  _

__ _ Mother escorts him to the dining area and sits him down, before disappearing to the kitchen for an instant and returning with a large bowl of soup in her hands. The smell immediately wakes up Damian’s stomach and it starts to growl, much to his embarrassment.  _

__ _ Mother sets the soup in front of him and then watches, waiting for him to dig in, which Damian does. After two months of whatever the he or the League hunted and killed or disgusting dried rations, Mother’s ox-blood soup is a balm. He eats it slowly, savoring every bite, and tries to listen as Mother tells him what’s been transpiring in his absence, and Damian does the same. He tells her of the rogue agents he and his instructor went after, his success in hiding his tracks from them or killing them, including a particularly successful shot he made when the cross winds at 30 kilometers per hour. Ideally, Damian would have waited for a break in the wind, but he’d had no clue if one would ever come while his target was in view, and he needed to practice adjusting his aim in the field some time. When he tells her so, Mother agrees and starts to bring out some tea to finish off the meal.... _

 

***

 

Waking to the smell of tea  _ almost  _ makes Damian feel as if he’s back home -- though there’s none of the tell-tale herbs Mother would usually put in, no cardamom or anise, or anything interesting. Just plain, black, Earl Grey tea, the way Pennyworth brews it. Damian  _ supposes  _ he could give Pennyworth instructions to brew it the other way, but he’s yet to ask for any of the comforts of home here.

By time Damian finishes getting dressed and coming out to the kitchen islet, Grayson is already up and reading the paper. Damian pours himself some tea the way he’s usually been drinking it here, before frowning and tossing it down the sink. He looks briefly around the kitchen before realizing he has no clue where Pennyworth keeps any of the essentials. “Pennyworth, where do you keep the condensed milk!” Damian asks.

“... Are you doing some  _ cooking _ ?” Pennyworth asks, slightly incredulous.

Damian presses his lips in a thin line, trying to figure out whatever Pennyworth is implying. “I’m fixing your tea,” he says.

Pennyworth slowly walks over to the cabinet to remove a can of condensed milk.

“I don’t suppose you have cardamom?” Damian asks. 

“Some what?”

_ Great _ , this is going to taste weird no matter what he does. In fact, Damian’s not even sure what other ingredients  _ go  _ in the tea -- he’s only seen Mother make it a couple times on slow days. Normally, the servants handled the cooking. 

“What are you trying to do?” Grayson asks.

“Make tea,” Damian says.

“Want any help?”

Damian narrows his eyes. He has no idea what game Grayson is playing. “Do you know  _ how _ ?” 

Grayson looks between Damian and Pennyworth, like this is a test and one of them has the answer. “Um, boil water…?”

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth.  _ He  _ could have said that, and he’s never cooked anything in his life, save for the odd hunted animal in survival exercises. 

“Is there a certain recipe you’d like me to use that I’m not?” Pennyworth asks.

“Karak tea,” Damian says. 

Pennyworth retrieves his smartphone from his pocket and starts typing on it. Damian peaks around his arm to see what it says, but he’s just searching for a recipe.

Damian resists the temptation to ask him  _ why _ , when Father’s people express nothing but disapproval for any other vestige of his childhood, but he’s not about to pretend that their opinion on anything bothered him.

As Pennyworth starts to make the tea, Grayson starts an interrogation. He says, “How are you doing, kiddo?”

Damian scowls at the overly familiar, condescending form of address. “Fine,” he says. “I’m  _ always  _ fine.” 

“We made a plan,” Grayson says, “So you can practice disarming foes at a distance instead of… you know… killing them.”

Damian narrows his eyes. He doesn’t bother pointing out that killing a person is the most sure way of disarming them, he already knows what Father’s people think of that rhetoric. 

“Pennyworth already informed me that more training was in order,” Damian says. “Even though I’m unenthused by it -- I’ve been training since the day I was born, with experts in every field. I passed all my tests in the League. Do you know how many people -- or even  _ nations  _ \-- would pay a  _ fortune  _ to have an Al Ghul working with them?”

“And yet you’re nobly working with us for free,” Pennyworth says.

“ _ Tt _ . That’s right.” Though  _ money  _ was never framed as a huge factor his grandfather’s motivations. Any paid assassinations were merely means to an end, providing Grandfather with the necessary resources to carry out his vision. Then, Damian adds, “And speaking of working -- ”

“When can you get back in the field?” Grayson interrupts him. 

Damian dislikes how predictable he’s being.

“Soon,” Pennyworth says, “But first, I insist on some tests, to make sure you’re actually improving. We can do them after breakfast.”

“ _ And  _ you have to finish training,” Grayson says, “So don’t even bother with the ‘I heal fast’ stuff. There’s already a reason you can’t go yet.”

Damian sighs. 

“How is school going so far?” Grayson asks. “You learn anything exciting?”

There’s something off about this interaction that Damian can’t quite place, he doesn’t trust Grayson’s motives for it. He’s probably trying to distract him. Still, he answers, if only to get Grayson to shut up: “I’ve learned about the difference between heterotrophs and autotrophs, and as a heterotroph, I’d like breakfast.”

“I’ll prepare some while the tea’s boiling,” Pennyworth says, and smiles for a reason Damian can’t possibly comprehend. Then, to Grayson, Pennyworth says, “Heterotrophs are organisms that can’t produce their own food and rely on other sources of organic carbon for their nutrition.”

“ _ Tt _ , I knew that,” Damian says. “And I choose to consume my organic carbon in the form of cereal.”

“Me too,” says Grayson, as he immediately stands up and grabs a box off the top of the fridge. He shows it to Damian and asks, “Coco puffs?”

Damian sticks his tongue out. “ _ Normal  _ cereal.”

Grayson grabs a box of bran cereal, which Damian  _ supposes  _ will do. He has no clue what he ate at home, because it never came in boxes -- at least none that he saw. 

After a couple minutes, Pennyworth pours the tea in a cup in front of Damian, and says, “I found a recipe that didn’t use cardamom, Master Damian. I hope it’s sufficient.”

Damian sniffs it skeptically, then takes a sip. It doesn’t really taste like it did back home, but it’s a start. 

Damian pours himself a bowl of cereal, and then pours the milky tea over it. Grayson watches him, curious, and Damian glowers at him, daring him to ask questions.

“Can I try a bite like that?” Grayson asks.

Damian hesitantly offers it to him (with a different spoon, of course, he’s not about to let Grayson get his germs on his food). After sampling it, Grayson nods with approval and pours himself a bowl of the cereal Damian had and some tea.

“Is this how you ate breakfast back with the League?” Graysons asks.

Damian tilts his head up a little. “Sometimes,” he says.

“You know, if you want some influence on the menu, all you had to do was ask,” Grayson says.  He looks up at Pennyworth and says, “Right?”

“Of course,” Pennyworth says, straightening up his posture a moment.

Damian doesn’t reply. He’s still waiting for the inevitable disapproval. 

After a couple minutes of silence, Grayson says, “So, I’ve been planning with Babs.”

“The woman in the wheelchair?”

“Yeah, well, she prefers to be called Babs. Or Barbara. She’d probably be weirded out if  _ you  _ called her Babs.”

“Just get to the point, Grayson.”

“We figure we can get her holo-room out of storage. It had an AI system that copied different combatant’s fighting styles. So we could just amp up the difficulty until you’d  _ normally  _ use lethal force, and then get you some different, um,  problem solving strategies.”

The way Grayson hesitates makes Damian sure that something’s going on, sure that Grayson must believe he resorted to lethal force for a reason other than the fact that it was the only option he saw. Damian doesn’t say so, though -- he can’t articulate exactly what set him off. Instead, he says, “I’ll never feel as if I’m in real danger if I’m only fighting holograms, Grayson.”

“I know,” Dicks says, “We’ll bring in some actual dummies for you to hit and some of the fake guns or projectile launchers from Bruce’s previous training rooms for you to get hit  _ by _ .”

Damian sniffs. That’s satisfactory, he  _ supposes _ . Obviously, the real best way to practice this would be against live human opponents, like he did as a child, but he knows that Grayson and Pennyworth would consider the risk of delivering a lethal blow to those live human opponents too high -- and either way, Damian’s not sure that he’d feel the need to resort to lethal force against someone he knows won’t harm him, at least not now, while he’s genuinely trying to abide Father’s rules. He knows he’s killed people in training before -- he’d never held back against the assassins he’d sparred, because he was never  _ supposed  _ to. Mother and Grandfather wouldn’t want him to accustom himself to stopping before dealing the killing blow -- after all, they’d said that hesitation, weakness, and mercy would never lead to victory.  _ The battle is won only when the killing stroke is dealt _ . Now everyone wants Damian to soften himself, to un-temper the instincts honed on ten years of training. Damian can do it -- he’s never encountered anything he couldn’t do, eventually -- though that doesn’t mean he’ll like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> misc end of chapter notes:
> 
> I might start titling the chapters so I can remember what happened in them later. I'll probably go back and title previous chapters as I think of them.
> 
> I also wanted to do a scene of him missing the LoS and his mom, because even if he tries not to act like it, he's still a 10 year old kid living with people he doesn't really trust in a society he wasn't raised in.
> 
> The ox blood soup thing was mentioned as a soup that Damian's mom made for him in Teen Titans Special #1. 
> 
> I borrowed some of this from arabian-batboy's Damian's Arabic headcanons, where he suggested Dick tries cereal with milk tea and likes it better, if you've seen it before and wonder where it looks familiar from.


	12. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick trains Damian as Robin and reminisces on his own time with Bruce.

Watching Damian fight, it’s disturbingly easy to forget that he’s only ten years old. 

It’s not  _ just  _ the fact that he’s a better combatant than any other kid Dick’s seen, or how hard and quickly he disables his fake opponents. It’s also his expression -- eyebrows down in determination, mouth set in a straight line -- pretty much the same expression he wears all the time. It’s not like determination is bad, in training, it’s pretty necessary. But he’s not having any  _ fun _ .

Dick remembers being eleven and training with Bruce. He knows how hard it was, he remembers how much he wanted to prove he could do it, he remembers getting frustrated with Bruce when things seemed impossible. But he also remembers, at least some of the time, having fun. How could you not? Even back then, when the Batcave was much smaller and less furnished, it was still like freaking Disneyland. The collapsible birdarangs were cool hi-tech gadgets  _ he  _ was going to use to save people! The grapple ropes were like nothing he’d ever seen before in the circus, and using them, he could do  _ way  _ more neat tricks than before. The mechanics of smoke bombs were mysterious enough that he tried to disassemble one and it blew up in his face, making him cough and throw up, but it was still so  _ satisfying  _ to finally get the explanation how they worked when Bruce explained that he didn’t even care. 

None of that kid-like wonder or fun is on Damian’s face right now. He might as well be going to work, Dick thinks as he watches from outside the holo-room. Nevermind how cool the holo-room would have been to Dick at the time -- it took over four days, but Barbara’s finally set it up and linked the machines that control the projectiles from the Batcave to the artificial intelligence that simulates the hologram opponents, meaning it will  _ almost  _ feel like Damian’s interacting with the holograms. That would have blown Dick’s mind as a kid, Damian just asked a couple questions about how it worked, said  _ Hmmm _ and then got dressed as Robin for training. It’s not  _ really  _ necessary to wear patrol outfits in training, but everyone figured the extra cushioning on the costume would help work as protection. Nothing in the room should hurt Damian, but with him still recovering, it helps to play it safe. 

In the holo room, things are not going smoothly at the moment. Barbara has the AI on a shuffle of various Gotham criminals, spawning a new enemy for Damian once he defeats the previous one. And right now, Damian just “defeated” Catwoman by throwing a sharpened birdarang through her throat, which, according to Babs’s computer and basic logic, would have killed her instantly. When Dick points this out over the intercom, Damian protests.

“Anything else would have lost me the fight, Grayson!” he says, panning his view and no doubt looking for the camera that’s keeping tabs on his training. “Besides, it’s not  _ real _ . I didn’t actually kill anyone.” 

“You have to treat it like it’s real, otherwise there’s not much point,” Dick says. “Isn’t that how it worked in the League of Shadows, anyway?”

“In the League of Shadows, my training  _ was  _ real,” Damian says. “Real fights, none of this simulation nonsense.” 

“Yeah, well we’re running low on expendable ninja fanatics, so you have to make do with this.” Dick grimaces as he says it, knowing he’s probably brushing off something horrifying with the comment. But he’s also pretty sure that Damian would hate it if he  _ told  _ the kid that’s not normal, that’s not the way we do training. It’s easier -- disturbingly easy, again -- to just brush it off with a flippant comment, knowing Damian probably won’t pay attention to what he says either way. 

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth, and the simulation spawns the next opponent, and the process starts again.

 

_ Dick feels like he’s flying. _

_ It’s a cliche, but that’s what they used to call it in the circus. Flying. Jumping and soaring around on trapezes or wires, free as a bird, and unless you knew how it worked, it  _ did  _ look like flight. _

__ Used to call it _ , he thinks. Like it’s already in the past. It’s only been two-and-a-half weeks since he came to live with Bruce, and over two months since his parents died, and he already thinks of it as “used to.”  _

__ _ It still hurts, any time he thinks about it, but he’s been trying  _ not  _ to think about it. And it’s not hard. Bruce has kept him so busy for the past weeks that he can barely think about anything that’s not training.  _

__ _ Right now, he’s swinging on a line at the very top of the batcave, having just grappled there to avoid Bruce. He’s  _ supposed  _ to be sparring him, but he hasn’t figured out how to hit him yet. _

__ _ He finally hits the floor and dodges as Bruce punches at him. He keeps his speed up -- flipping forwards, spinning through the air, lands and then runs -- _

__ Whack!

__ _ Bruce kicked him while he was running, knocking him off balance! Low blow! But before he even hits the ground, Dick turns his forward momentum into a forward roll and puts some space between him and Bruce. _

__ _ “Good,” Bruce says. “You’re very light on your feet. But you can’t win the fight unless you incapacitate me. It doesn’t matter if you hit me back or find another way --” _

__ _ Dick sighs. This has been the end of their training for the past two weeks. They start with basic hand-to-hand techniques, just getting Dick comfortable punching or kicking, then basic strength or endurance exercises, then move on to checking your surroundings, identifying threats, how to look at a crime scene without contaminating it… and all of the day’s training culminates in a fight with Bruce.  _

__ _ Dick hasn’t been able to win one yet. He’s not sure he’ll be able to, ever. Bruce seems to be everywhere at once and always anticipating his moves. _ __ _ Out of frustration, Dick charges Bruce. Bruce steps to the side easily, and when Dick turns around and faces him, gestures for him to attack again. Dick kicks at Bruce’s shin but misses when he dodges, then punches straight in his stomach. Even though he hit, it felt like punching a wall of solid muscle.  _

__ _ “Good,” Bruce says. “But don’t aim at my stomach.” _

__ _ “But I was  _ trying  _ to punch you in the stomach!”  _

__ _ Bruce bends down a little and grabs Dick’s arm, rotating it over and going through the motion of the punch with him. “First of all, don’t  _ aim  _ at my stomach. You have to aim  _ behind  _ it, so your blow goes through and actually does damage. Secondly, don’t aim  _ at my stomach _. You’re too small to do any damage by hitting a heavily muscled area. Stick to pressure points -- ” _

__ _ “I can never hit those!” Dick protests. “You move too fast.” _

__ _ Bruce frowns at the interruption. “Or joints, knees, fingers, soft areas like kidneys, strikes to the face -- but only with a fleshy area of your hand, like the hammerfist or palm heel. Until you get better, you’re liable to break your knuckles if you punch someone’s bony skull with a fist.” _

__ _ Dick sighs. It feels like there are a hundred things to remember and he’s got to recall each of them in a split second when fighting.  _

__ _ “Do it again,” Bruce says. “Remember to actually try to hit me back, and follow through on your attacks. Don’t just jump around and dodge -- that works when you’re dodging bulletfire, but with me, you know you won’t get hurt. You can improve your offensive skills…” _

 

“Damian, damn it, you don’t have to be on the attack constantly!” Dick says through the comm, so that Damian will hear him in the Batbunker’s holo-room. “Make a better plan!”

“I’m -- ”  _ tchk _ , an exhale of breath with a blow to his enemy -- “ _ ending the fight _ !” Damian protests.

He is, Dick thinks as he watches Damian, dressed as Robin, fight against the various hologram combatants Babs set up. Right now, he just finished up a fight with a simulation of Electrocutioner with, according to the computers, enough force to put him in the hospital, possibly even cripple him for life. 

The computer spawns Mr. Freeze, and Dick sighs. Damian  _ is  _ ending the fights, but he’s not  _ thinking  _ about it like he should be. He’s taking the easy way out -- the harder the fight he has, the less he holds back, the more desperately he fights, and the more injured his opponent gets. 

“I haven’t killed  _ any  _ of these goons you sent at me,” Damian says as he dodges an ice ray. “I’m following the stupid rules you put down!”

“The more you practice checking your blows, the easier it will get,” Dick says. 

Damian clicks his teeth together. He reaches for his belt and throws two batarangs at Freeze’s gun. They pass harmlessly through the hologram, obviously, but Freeze still drops the gun -- the simulation read that it would have worked, were he physical.

Damian rushes at Freeze and strikes him in the solar plexus and then the floating ribs. He wheels, clearly expecting to see Freeze falling to the ground, but frowns. Freeze strikes him across the face, Damian cringes from the projectile that hit him at that instant, and “Loser: Robin” pops up in a holographic projection.

Damian grunts in frustration. “It’s not fair!” he says. “I hit him and nothing happened. He hit me and I lose?”

“Freeze wears advanced armor,” Dick says. “He’s tougher than Electrocutioner. He wouldn’t have felt your blows.” 

“But I wasn’t  _ allowed  _ to hit him hard -- ”

“You have to be adaptable, Damian,” Dick says. “What will knock one person out might kill another. You always have to be conscious of it.”

Damian grunts. 

“But you’re doing good, that was smart, disarming him,” Dick adds, just so that the fight doesn’t end on a complete down note. He remembers hating it when he felt like he ended a training session not having learned anything. It doesn’t work, though, it just makes Damian glower at the camera, at Dick, harder, though.

“Don’t condescend me,” Damian says. “I lost the fight.”

“Why don’t you take a break and let Alfred check up on you,” Dick says.

Damian scowls, but does leave the holo-room. He takes off his mask and sets it down on the table and stares up at Dick. “So  _ you’re  _ not dressed up for training.”

Dick doesn’t mention that he doesn’t  _ need  _ to practice not killing people. He’s pretty sure that any insinuation he makes that he’s better than Damian in some way will just end with the kid hating this more. He  _ also  _ doesn’t mention that he’s already gone out as Batman, since he figures that will just lead to Damian inviting himself on patrol before he’s done healing. Instead, he says, “You’re right, I could use some extra training. Maybe I’ll suit up and hop in there with you.”

“ _ Tt _ . As you should,” Damian adds. “But am I not done yet? We’ve been  _ at this  _ for three days! I haven’t felt the need to resort to lethal force since day one.”

Which is true. Damian’s taken a loss multiple times to avoid resorting to lethal force in the arena since then. Dick’s just worried it won’t stick once he’s no longer fighting holograms -- if there’s an innocent person in danger, it would make sense to Damian to use lethal force to protect the innocent person -- after all, isn’t a superhero  _ supposed  _ to protect people? 

No, he really wants to see Damian using alternate problem solving strategies and  _ winning  _ when he’d normally have to use lethal force to do so. He figures then Damian will be ready for the field. 

Alfred comes in the room with some bottles of water, a plate of what  _ looks  _ like Hot Pockets, and his medical bag. He deftly takes out an oximeter and blood pressure cuff and starts taking Damian’s vitals.

“So  _ far  _ you’re doing well,” Alfred says.

“I told you I heal quickly,” Damian says, sticking his chin up a little. Dick kind of wonders if he isn’t trying to look down his nose at everyone by doing that, but the effect is lessened by him being 4’6”, 4’7” tops. 

“If this keeps up, you can go back in the field in a week,” Alfred says. Before Damian can protest, he adds, “And I insisted this to your father as well, when it happened to him. You’re not being held to any standards that  _ he  _ wasn’t.”

Dick doesn’t bother mentioning that Bruce was  _ terrible  _ at listening to Alfred’s medical advice. He figures if Damian wants to emulate his father, he’s only going to tell him the things that are  _ worth  _ emulating.

“I’m surprised my father let you order him around,” Damian says. 

“Yes, well it turns out that the only authority that supersedes the World’s Greatest Detective is his doctor.”

Damian grimaces deeply and looks at Alfred out of the corner of his eye. “But you’re his servant. Servants… serve.”

“Technically he’s a butler,” Dick says. “Butlers buttle.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Damian says. “Ra’s Al Ghul would never allow a mere servant to boss him around.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow and casts a slightly wary glance at Dick. “I’d hardly aspire to treat people the way a supervillain does,” Alfred says eventually.

Damian narrows his eyes skeptically, but doesn’t press the topic. He instead turns his skeptical glare to the snacks and says, “What the hell are those?”

“Hot Pockets,” Dick says, and grabs one. He takes a bite, and but it doesn’t  _ taste _ like a Hot Pocket. More deep-fried-y, less frozen-y. “ _ Fancy  _ Hot Pockets,” he says after swallowing.

“I assure you that I would never serve frozen food in this home,” Alfred says, voice stiff in offense. “They are kaassoufflés.” When he only receives questioning looks from Dick and Damian, he continues, “I felt like trying something new, expanding my culinary skills.”

“They’re delicious,” Dick says.

“They’re adequate,” Damian says. 

“Is there anything you might find better than adequate, Master Damian?” Alfred asks with an eyebrow raised.

“It’s just food, what’s it matter?” Damian asks. He quickly grabs his mask and puts it back on, then looks up at Dick. “Now get changed, Grayson! You said we could practice together!”

 

_ Dick will never, ever admit this to anyone, but he’s sick of training. _

__ _ He won’t admit it to Alfred because he can already  _ tell  _ Alfred doesn’t like the idea of him trying to be Robin, of him working with Batman. He’s not sure if Alfred doesn’t approve because he’s a  _ kid _ , but Dick doesn’t really see how that matters. He figures that if he’s old enough to watch his parents get murdered, he’s old enough to make sure it never happens to anyone else.  _

__ _ He won’t admit it to Bruce either, because he doesn’t want Bruce to think he doesn’t want to do this. Of course he wants to do it! If he had, he wouldn’t have been devoting the last five months to it! _

__ _ But he’s sick of being in the Batcave, sick of throwing birdarangs at targets and punching dummies and looking through microscopes and practicing dusting for prints and god it all sounds  _ awful  _ because he’s going to need that, but he misses just… playing games. Flipping around on the trapeze because it was  _ fun  _ and not because it helped him avoid criminals. _

__ _ He doesn’t even realize he’s been moping and frustrated on the couch until Bruce comes in and asks him what’s wrong. Dick sits up and sighs. “Nothing, I’ll get back to training.” _

__ _ He grabs his notes from the coffee table next to him to start working over the notes he’d taken over one of Bruce’s lectures:  _ How to examine a crime scene without disturbing it _ … He’s been over it 50 times already, but Bruce drilled its essentialness into his head. He doesn’t want to forget a thing. _

__ _ From the corner of his vision, Dick can see Bruce making a hasty exist. Probably just popping in to make sure Dick wasn’t slacking off, then. Of course. _

__ _ Dick starts mentally repeating the bullet points in his head.  _ Never move the body _ , he could have told you that without any official training.  _ Note the folds in the clothing  _ along with some handy pictures… _

__ _ A shadow is cast over him, and Dick guesses that Bruce returned. Dick turns looks up to see, and there’s Bruce holding a large orange ball in his hands. It’s such an unexpected sight that Dick takes a moment to recognize the object, even though he’s seen it loads of times before. A basketball. _

__ _ “What’s this about?” Dick asks. _

__ _ “Training,” Bruce says. “Hand-eye coordination.” His eyebrows are angles slightly upwards at the edges, mouth turned a little downward, he still looks completely serious. But it’s probably the closest he’ll come to suggesting a break, even if he is framing a game as training, so Dick smiles. _

__ _ “Okay,” Dick says. “But I have to warn you, I’m  _ pretty  _ good at H.O.R.S.E.” _ _   
_ __ _ “I’m not so shabby myself,” Bruce says, and he cracks a smile in response.  _

__ _ Dick can’t help but hop off the couch and race outside, already excited for the game. _

  
  


“What the hell is this?” Damian says once Dick has led him to the terrace on the penthouse roof, where he’s set up a makeshift basketball basket.

Yes, he’ll admit to stealing Bruce’s strategies here. But it  _ worked,  _ didn’t it? It got him to feel better and take his mind off training. Damian  _ seems  _ deceptively dedicated to this, wanting to go pretty much as long as Alfred will permit in his current medical condition, so he can get back into the field as soon as possible. But Dick’s also pretty sure that if Damian wanted or needed a break, he’d never say so. After all,  _ Dick  _ didn’t say so when he was training to be Robin, and he was way more of a normal kid than Damian. 

“It’s a training exercise,” Dick says, bouncing the ball up a couple times. “The goal is to get the ball through the hoop.” He steps back and demonstrates, and the ball goes through the hoop, hitting nothing but net in an incredibly satisfying  _ whoosh _ . 

“ _ I  _ can do that,” Damian says, and walks over and grabs the ball, which is bouncing slightly on the ground still. He stands right underneath the basket and launches the ball straight upward.  _ Fortunately _ , it goes through, because Dick was  _ not  _ looking forward to Damian’s reaction if the thing bounced off the rim and hit him in the face.

Dick runs over and grabs the ball. “Not quite,” he says.

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Why not? It went through the hoop, didn’t it?”

Dick dribbles the ball a couple times, then says, “Yeah, but it has to go through the hoop in a certain way. You -- ”

Damian interrupts him: “You didn’t say that the first time.”   
“Yeah, well, I’m explaining now,” Dick says. “It has to go through the top of the hoop, not the bottom. See?” he shoots the ball again.

Damian watches carefully, rubbing his chin in thought, and then says, “What  _ exactly  _ is the point of this exercise?”

“Oh, you know,” Dick says. “Hand-eye coordination.”

“My hand-eye coordination is already superb. And why aren’t we using something  _ practical _ , like knives? We used to do an exercise like this in the League of Shadows,” Damian says, speaking so fast Dick can’t even get a word in edgewise to explain why they aren’t using weapons. “There would be little rings or targets I had to aim the knives at. Or arrows. I’m an excellent archer. I was instructed by Merlyn, you know.”

Dick has  _ no  _ clue how to respond to that. To be honest, he’s not even sure if Damian’s joking about the Merlyn thing. “That’s… nice,” he says finally.

“Besides, wouldn’t we do better practicing throwing something harder, to better incapacitate an enemy? The parabolic arc all objects take in freefall means -- ”

“No!” Dick says. “No enemies! This exercise doesn’t have anything to do with enemies.”

Damian narrows his eyes and looks between the hoop and the ball. “So it’s about precision then?” he asks. “I’ve done exercises like that before.” 

Dick nods slowly, unsure where Damian’s going with this. “Sure,” he says. “Anyway, so the rules are I throw the ball through the hoop” (Dick does so for a third time) “then, you throw it through the hoop in the exact same way I did, from the exact same spot I did.”

Damian walks over and grabs the ball from where it bounced, then carries it over to where Dick was. “‘I throw the ball through the hoop’,” Damian says, mimicking Dick’s voice close enough to  _ thoroughly _ weird him out.

“Holy shit,” Dick says. 

Damian stops mid-throw to glance at Dick. “You  _ told  _ me to imitate you.”

“Yeah, well you don’t have to imitate my voice,” Dick says. “Just the basketball stuff.”

Damian tries. He throws the ball up, but it still goes in a straight line like he just lobbed it at a target. It hits the backboard and bounces off. Dick runs after it to make sure it doesn’t wind up flying off the terrace and onto the poor Gothamites below.

“Okay,” Dick says, running back. “So, that’s point for me.”

“But I did what you did!” 

“Yeah, but it has to go through the hoop to count. Here,” Dick says, chucking the ball at Damian. “Why don’t you set up the position this time, and I’ll imitate you.”

Damian eyes the ball skeptically and throws it up and Dick realizes he probably  _ should  _ have taught Damian how to shoot a basket before this. Damian’s using both hands, due to the awkwardly large size of the ball, rather than mostly launching it with his right and just holding it and positioning it with his left.

“Here,” Dick says. “I’ll teach you how to throw it.”

“ _ Tt _ . I already know how to throw things,” Damian says. But he nods slightly, gesturing Dick forwards. 

Dick holds the ball out and starts to explain, but halfway through, Damian shakes his head and asks, “Is this one of those strange civilian exercises?” 

“What do you mean?”

Damian shrugs. “Civilian exercises always seem a bit contrived to me. You’re not allowed to work with all of the tools at your disposal, which  _ maybe  _ is the point. I can see some merit in forcing yourself to develop alternate problem solving strategies…”

Dick has no clue what Damian is talking about, and he’s guessing it shows on his face, because Damian says, “I’m not sheltered, you know. I’ve seen civilian exercises.”

“Uh, right,” Dick says. “What’s a civilian exercise?”

“Well, I witness one in the park. A series of people gather, one of them is the pursuer and must pursue the others. Once he touches another,  _ he  _ becomes the pursuer and  _ they  _ are the pursuee. You can’t fight him off, you can only run or dodge to avoid the touch. Combat skills don’t count.” He pauses, and then adds, “It’s called ‘tag’.”

Dick laughs -- not  _ at  _ Damian, but just because the combination of the familiar activity and utterly unfamiliar way of describing it jarred him. It still earns him a glower.

“It’s not funny; I described it exactly as it happened!” Damian says.

“Yeah, I know,” Dick says. “If it helps, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was -- ” 

Again, Damian looks like he wants to kill Dick. 

“I know what exercise you’re talking about,” Dick says, attempting to be serious. “But we don’t call them exercises. We call them games. You know, H.O.R.S.E., tag, velociraptors attack the president -- fun stuff for kids to do.”

Damian tilts his head back a little and raises his eyebrows incredulously. “I’ve never played such games in my childhood.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t really call your childhood typical,” Dick says. “More stabbing, less sharing.”

He’s expecting Damian to respond back angrily, as is usual for him, or sarcastically, matching Dick’s tone. But he doesn’t. Damian just stops and drops the ball that then bounces at his feet, and he frowns slightly. Before it can change to any more obvious expression of sadness, he clenches his jaw and says tensely:  “I know I’m not like other people my age, Grayson.”

Dick notices that Damian doesn’t say other  _ children _ . He’s not sure he’s  _ ever  _ heard Damian refer to himself as a child. He seems to want to act and be perceived like a miniature adult. 

Dick swallows, and says, “Yeah, I noticed.”

Damian puts his hands on his hips and stares up at Dick in a way he can’t tell if is defiance or false bravado. “I’m  _ better  _ than them.”

Dick knows he should probably say no, he’s not, your value doesn’t have anything to do with how good you are at superhero or assassin stuff and other kids are just as good as you are. But for a moment, if only a moment, Damian looked as close to sad and vulnerable as he’ll probably ever come, possibly  _ because  _ of what Dick said, that Dick can’t bear to correct him. Instead, he reaches a hand out, squeezes Damian’s shoulder, and says, “I guess you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Dick's time before being Robin, I'm aware that there are like 500 different options depending on the continuity. I was going with Batman Year 3 instead of Robin Annual #4 here, which as far as I'm aware, are the two New Earth options. 
> 
> For the Kaasouffles -- I will cop to wikipediaing "Snacks" and seeing what popped up. When I asked my siblings if I should use them, and my brother told me they looked like fancy hotpockets and pretty much dared me to call them that in my fic :P So I had to, obviously.
> 
> I also pretty much ripped off the basketball scene phrasing from Young Justice, but it sounded like such a Bruce-y way to do it I had to :P
> 
> This will probably be the last training/recovering from injury chapter unless I get hit with sudden inspiration for another before next update, because lets face it, Damian has to actually get better and be Robin sometime :P


	13. First Patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustrated with feeling dependent on his guardians, Damian goes out as Robin alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while so just a quick CW: Damian's action scenes are often a bit gruesome/violent in description.

Damian wonders if Pennyworth and Grayson are aware of how similar these past weeks have felt to living and training with the League. Homeschooling with Pennyworth did not feel all that different from training under the League’s various tutors, neither was sparring Grayson much different from sparring his mother. The dedication, self discipline, and general level of violence were the same -- the only change was whether you end your enemies by incapacitating them and arresting them or killing them.

He hasn’t shared this thought with Pennyworth and Grayson, of course. He knows that they’d detest the comparison, as they detest everything about the League. The reason seems to be entirely based on death -- specifically, it was acceptable for the League, but not for them. If he were here, if Damian could stand the sight of him right, Grand --  _ Ra’s Al Ghul  _ \-- would lecture them for thinking small. Grayson wants to find an individual evil man and beat him up; the League was always about stopping human corruption at its source, even if that meant collateral damage. The only difference, as far as Damian can tell, is that as a child, he was instructed to think like a general; here, he’s supposed to be a footsoldier. 

It’s a demotion. He knows that; he’d be stupid not to. It’s going from being the heir to Ra’s Al Ghul and commanding assassins -- men twenty years his senior -- in battle, to being expected to obey his father’s lackeys, people who in any  _ right  _ world, he would be commanding. 

 The Damian from a couple months ago, before he ever met his father, when his role seemed clear and he was still expecting to carry on Ra’s Al Ghul’s work after his death, would detest the Damian now. He was always supposed to be a leader, not a follower. Of course, the Damian from a couple months ago didn’t have to deal with his grandfather’s betrayal or his father’s strange reaction to him. The Damian from a couple months ago was simply allowed to be what he was supposed to be.

Damian decides that the least he can do is go out as Robin on his own. Not out of contrariness, as he’s sure Grayson will interpret it -- as if he’s a mere child upset at hearing the word “no” -- but to prove to himself that he’s going out to fulfill his father’s legacy independently, rather than relying on Grayson for everything or requiring his direction. Damian doesn’t require such things. 

Damian’s not a fool. He’s been paying close enough attention to the medical care Pennyworth has given him that he’s sure he can duplicate it, especially if he keeps in mind the knowledge Mother had provided him with earlier. He’s watched and inquired as to how the sphygmomanometer and oximeter work. He knows what the readings mean, and he knows that he’s ready to go back out -- Pennyworth will officially give him permission tomorrow, after the whole week has passed. One day won’t make a difference, but this way, Damian will be going out alone, not relying on father’s lackeys. 

So, once Grayson leaves for patrol at eleven and Pennyworth retreats to his room to get a couple hours of sleep, Damian sneaks out of the penthouse and rides the elevator down to the Batbunker. 

Even though he’s been here plenty of times before, every day for the past week and almost every day in the week before that, the bunker feels larger, emptier, without anyone else inside. Grayson’s annoying prattle no longer echoes off the walls; instead, silence engulfs the room. The sparring room, temporarily converted into Gordon’s holo-room, is inactive, no longer animated with the simulation of fictitious battles. The entire bunker is in power-saving mode; only the security system and a dim light are active.

Damian creeps forward towards the lockers, scanning the peripherals for anyone still watching. Grayson’s costume isn’t here, so he must be out, but Damian can’t help his wariness. The shadows cast by the dim lights provide perfect places for any assassin to hide -- he should know. He’s done it before.

 He approaches his locker and opens it, then quickly changes into the Robin costume. There, hidden in the back of his locker, is still the sword that Mother gave him on his 10th birthday -- his grandfather’s sword. The handle is as long as his forearm and the blade is longer than his leg. The guard is curved and covered in an elegant white scale pattern, and the handle in leather with a braided pattern. On his birthday, he’d been proud to receive it.  _ You are an Al Ghul first and a Wayne second,  _ Mother had said.  _ Remember that, my little dark knight.  _ Right now, he wishes he’d brought literally any other weapon when he was running from the League, but he hadn’t thought about it. At the time, it was his most valuable possession, so naturally it was the sword he grabbed.

He takes it out of the locker and swings it experimentally. It still feels just as natural as breathing, of course, even though he hasn’t practiced with it in over a month. But it was the first weapon he was ever taught to use; he learned to walk carrying around his wooden practice sword. It’s the Al Ghul tradition, Mother had said. Once we are capable of making a fist, we are capable of using swords. He could no more forget how to wield a sword than he could forget his own name. 

Damian sheaths his sword slings it over his back. He probably won’t even draw it, and he certainly won’t use it to kill anyone, but he’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it. Besides, even Father’s people used weapons when fighting metas -- Grayson went off on a two minute tangent once about how he missed his escrimas for near-invulnerable foes. Damian reasonably had pointed out that a bladed weapon would work better, depending on the nature of the foe’s invulnerability, but Grayson had refused to enter a debate about it. He said Damian didn’t need to use lethal weapons, regardless of the circumstance.

Once he’s ready for patrol, Damian sizes up his options. He could take the Batmobile when he goes on patrol, of course. He’s pretty sure he’s finished fixing it up; the  _ theory _ holds, and the small trial-run he took in the bunker was a complete success, even if Pennyworth protested at the jets on the bottom of the vehicle burning Grayson’s jacket. Honestly, the man should have had his civilian clothes stashed in a locker during training, not left out on a chair. It was really an oversight on his part.

Of course, despite his best attempts to silence the engine, the vehicle still was louder than he was, and it was also bigger and much more visible. If Damian doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s up to tonight, he’ll have to go on foot.

Damian creeps out the Batbunker and grapples to the nearest rooftop, giving himself an advantageous birds’ eye view. He’s unsure exactly where Grayson is tonight, because he’s only been on patrol a couple times before -- back before he’d received Father’s letter, when he wasn’t yet Robin and Grayson hadn’t yet donned his Batman suit. Back then, Gotham was in enough chaos that it wasn’t difficult to find a fight to stop; now, he has to look. Since Grayson had described Gotham to him in training, Damian decides to go by the docks. Grayson had said that if there’s something being moved in or out of the city -- drugs, weapons, people -- it’s often on the docks. It’s time Damian makes that place a little less safe for the scum of the world.

From his place on the roof, Damian launches himself down a truck going in the direction he desires and lands on the trailer. As he slides, he stabs one of the batarangs into the roof to slow him and let him keep hold. Then, all he has to do is crouch down and keep himself low. Once the truck turns off the right road, Damian shoots his grappling hook at a nearby building and grapples off. Child’s play.

When he reaches the docks, Damian remembers his training and sticks to the shadows. Of course, this  _ would _ be easier without the bright yellow cape. He debates just taking it off and stashing it somewhere, but on the off chance he forgets it, he doesn't want to have to explain how he lost it. Besides, the cape is useful -- it’s somewhat damage resistant and fireproof. 

The first forty minutes of his patrol are obscenely boring. No one’s here, except for the occasional security patrol coming through -- though they’re loud enough that any  _ competent  _ enemies would hear them coming and hide, so Damian’s not sure what they’re for, unless it’s just for show. Scaring off teen vandals and minor threats. Damian internally scoffs. This is why Gotham needs his father’s people, obviously. 

Predictably, the threat arrives after the security patrol passes, as the enemy had been as acutely aware of the guards’ clumsy footsteps as he was. At least, Damian  _ thinks  _ the people arriving are the enemies. He does realize he lept to a conclusion the first time he was out, but he’s confident he won’t make the same mistake this time. He’ll wait until he knows what’s going on.

“The enemy” - four men and one woman, all around their twenties or thirties and dressed in jackets against the coming autumn chill - stand on the dock. One of them reaches for a walky-talky and says something, but their voice is too soft to carry well enough for Damian to make out the words.

Damian shifts from his position in the shadows. He’s behind the corner of a warehouse, between it and a stack of boxes. He needs to make his way closer to hear more, to be more certain. 

However, he  _ doesn’t  _ need to be closer to see what the five are waiting for -- a medium sized cargo ship starts coming in.

Okay, that’s obvious enough that even the security patrol should have noticed it. All Damian has to do is wait for them to come back and then protect them if they get in over their heads. Not the best use of his skills, but he figures maintaining operational secrecy until it’s absolutely necessary is for the best. No need to alert anyone to his presence if the issue might be resolved on its own. 

… Assuming this even is an issue. He’s yet to put together the entire puzzle. 

Damian holds in a desire to sigh disappointment. Waiting around, acting only in response to criminals, still seems not only boring, but intellectually lazy. Reactive, rather than proactive. That can’t possibly be how Father operated, can it ?

Damian passes the time by imagining he’s just lying in wait to assassinate someone, but it rings false without another target -- and of course, it would probably elicit another lecture from Grayson or Pennyworth for… he doesn’t know…  _ thinking  _ wrongly? He makes a face at the idea. Even though Father’s people yearn to restrain and dictate his actions, they’ll never be able to control his thoughts. 

Finally, the security patrol comes around again. Damian expects the five newcomers to jump in surprise, or draw their weapons, so he preemptively prepares a smoke grenade, but they don’t. They seem to nod at the patrol as they approach.

So they were… allowed here? Not doing anything illegal?

The woman hands one of the security guards an envelope, and the man quickly opens it and then nods approvingly and keeps going on his way. By time Damian’s fished his binoculars out of his belt, though, the envelope is shut and he can’t tell what was in it.

Damian frowns.

Still, he waits, unsure as to exactly what happened. As far as he knows, the envelope could have contained paperwork explaining their presence -- or bribe money. 

The security guards do  _ not  _ continue their route, instead they seem to head away, towards the parking lot. Damian loses sight of them as they go and elects to stay on the docks.

But if they were leaving, whatever’s happening probably isn’t good.

The ship docks and two people come out, holding boxes. One of them takes the top off of the box, showing the five on the dock that inside the box lies a couple rifles and -- is that a rocket launcher?

Damian’s torn between rolling his eyes -- what kind of common criminal even  _ needs  _ a rocket launcher? Talk about overkill -- and jealousy -- sure, he’s never needed to fire one, but he knows  _ how _ . He’s just never had the opportunity to assault anything so heavily armored as to require it, and his instructors  _ always  _ emphasized using the right weapons for the job. A sword, dagger, or even your hands, was more effective at quietly eliminating a target than blowing them to pieces. 

Either way, Damian’s sure enough that at night rocket-launcher deals are a sign of weapons trafficking that he can safely move in and do what he does best. He tosses his smoke grenade, still ready in his hands, into the fray and prepares to charge in. 

An immediate “What the fuck?” from one of the men rings out and Damian permits himself a smile at the clear lack of awareness of his foes. He starts to instinctively reach for his sword, but turns the motion into a grab for the batarangs on his belt to match with the fighting style he’s  _ supposed  _ to employ here. He listens for the perfect target in the smoke, and it’s not too hard to find one -- there’s a scramble of chaos in the center of the cloud, where the box of guns was.

Of course. They’re arming themselves against a superior opponent. 

It’d be comically easy to end the situation by throwing an explosive batarang right there and detonating any rockets in the rocket launcher, but that’s not  _ allowed _ , so Damian just throws his regular, sharpened batarang as hard as he can at where he’s reasonably sure someone’s torso is. There’s a  _ squelch  _ as it digs into flesh and an  _ “Aaag _ ”, so Damian knows he hit his mark.

Damian takes a deep breath and dives into the smoke. He leaps on where he last heard one man and lands awkwardly halfway off their shoulder and back, but it’s good enough. He remembers Mother’s lessons about how all humanoids have roughly similar body plans, and if you know where one part is, like the shoulders --

He elbows the man hard in the side of the head and the man wavers on his feet. 

\-- you know where the rest of their body is and can fight accordingly.

Damian feels what he  _ could  _ do -- it’d be so, so easy to reach one hand around the bottom of his chin and the other over the top of his head and twist with his entire bodyweight behind it, snapping the man’s neck -- but he doesn’t. He instead elbows the man again to the same spot --

A  _ crunch  _ of his zygomatic bone snapping 

\-- and the man screams loudly and falls to the ground.

Damian immediately rolls away, because no doubt the scream alerted the others to his presence. And predictably, a hail of bullets pierces through the air Damian just left.

_ And if their own man hadn’t fallen down? They’d have shot him. Idiots. _

__ The smoke is starting to dissipate now, and Damian knows he has to act quickly to take out another target before he’s painfully visible and in shooting range. He can already hear the footsteps of the men as they evacuate the area for a better vantage point. Damian follows behind one and punches him to the back of his kidney, throws his entire body weight into a stomp down on the back of his knee, spins around so he’s at the front of the man’s body, and brings a hammerfist  _ hard  _ down on his nose, breaking it. The man screams, not unconscious, but in too much pain to do anything.

Rather than staying in place, Damian retreats back through the smoke to his old hiding place, preparing his next assault. He knows he broke his cover. There’s another erratic burst of gunfire, nowhere near him, just aimed wildly.

“Who is it?” someone asks. 

And then, possibly because Damian still hasn’t been spotted (except for by that man screaming from a broken nose), someone offers “it’s probably Batman.”

Damian grins.

The four of the people who are still standing are looking around, holding guns, preparing to shoot at any shadow. The fifth, one of the two men who’d helped deliver the guns, has started running back towards the ship. 

_ Coward _ , Damian thinks, and throws a bolas around his feet. He drops to the ground immediately after the throw --

And good thing, too, because everyone else started firing at where the bolas came from. Damian’s practically hugging the asphalt, bullets flying over his head --

“Leave it to me” -- the woman’s voice. Damian peeks up and --

Hmm, she grabbed the rocket launcher. Unfortunate.

Damian scrambles backwards and ducks behind the boxes and they explode, splinters flying everywhere. They would have pierced the skin on his neck and face if he hadn’t held up the cape (he  _ knew  _ it’d come in handy) and he rolls backwards. 

The four approach him and Damian busts out another smoke bomb as a distraction, so they can’t see where he is immediately. He runs, knowing they’ll immediately refocus on him, but while they’re taking their time to aim he’s grabbing tools from his utility belt --

Got to grab the  _ right  _ tools, because the  _ wrong  _ ones could be deadly in this situation, like if he used an explosive on a person --

And throwing two batarangs, one at each of two men’s hands, the woman reloads and aims her rocket launcher still at the smoke cloud, she hasn’t spotted him yet, the last armed man is focusing on Damian, he aims, Damian ducks, rolls towards him, doesn’t take out his sword, he’s too afraid he’ll fall back into old habits if he does, gets inside his guard, elbow to the grown, hook to the floating ribs, steps behind him, grabs his wrist and shoves him in an arm bar, keeping the man between him and his enemies, making them fight on  _ his  _ terms.

“Jared, move,” the woman says, aiming the rocket launcher at the two of them. The man he’s holding between them lets out a terrified  _ eep _ , but the woman must not want to kill Damian bad enough that she’ll hurt her own man, because she doesn’t fire. She just groans in frustration.

In his peripheral vision, the two last remaining combatants, the ones he’d disarmed, are reaching for their guns again, and Damian’s just thinking that this would have been  _ so  _ much more effective if he’d just killed them, or at the very least, cut off their hands.

Before they can get their weapons and prepare to finish him off, Damian finishes his armbar on Jared, pulling his wrist down and snapping it. Jared screams and Damian kicks him in the face hard enough to knock him unconscious. He immediately grasps a --

_ Bolas _ ? He meant to grab a batarang. Stupid stupid utility belt and rules and non-lethal weapons --

Ducks down as the woman takes aim, spins towards the man on the right and turns a mistake into a victory by throwing the bolas around the arms and torso of man on the left, preventing him from aiming his gun. A rocket goes off in the distance, having flown over where Damian’s head used to be, and hit the ship.

Damian strikes the man next to as hard and fast as he can -- groin, solar plexus, face as the man bends down to --

Ugh. Throw up. It got all over Damian’s arm as he was punching him.

Now it’s just him and the woman and the man with the bolas around his arms and chest who is desperately trying to wriggle out of the trap so he can shoot Damian. It doesn’t work -- his gun is pointed up at the sky in his current position; all he does is aim at the clouds.

The woman finishes reloading her rocket launcher and takes aim. Damian notes the slowness of the weapon, the click before she fires, the impracticality of having only one shot. He leaps away, acutely aware of how much physical effort it takes to pull that off than it does for her to pull the trigger. But she can’t shoot as fast as she could with a gun; she’s handicapping herself too. 

Damian throws the batarang like an actual boomerang, so it will go behind her and come back to him, and charges. She grabs another rocket propelled grenade and starts to reload the rocket launcher, but her head’s knocked forward as the batarang comes back, throwing her off and giving Damian the time he needs to get inside her guard.

At this close distance, the rocket launcher is a hindrance. She can’t do anything with it and her hands are occupied. As she’s bent forward from the blow of the batarang, Damian steps in with an uppercut to her chin, knocking her head back, then leaps on her torso and elbows her in the clavicle with a  _ shatter _ .

She drops the rocket launcher and yells.

She falls down and Damian falls on top of her and she tries to hit him with her uninjured arm but Damian blocks, turns his ridgehand straight around her arm and to the back of her triceps tendon, and braces his arm with his other hand to apply the armbar. As she leans forward to headbutt at him, Damian lifts the arm barring hers up sharply, forcing her to lean back again or risk hyperextending her own elbow.

… which he then hyperextends  _ anyway _ , because really, he needs her out of the fight. He stands up and knees her in the face and she’s either unconscious or semi conscious enough for him to not worry about her anymore.

The only people who aren’t moaning in pain on the ground are the two he’d thrown the bolases around -- one with it around his torso, running away towards the ship, and the other frantically trying to take it off his legs. Their disadvantageous positions makes taking them out easy.

Damian sighs.

As he stands in the middle of the chaos, near the box of weapons, he’s just acutely aware how…  _ non victorious _ ? this feels. The semi conscious enemies could regain full consciousness at any moment and surround him, they could try to hold him down with their superior strength or body weight…

_ No hesitation, no weakness, no mercy for fools _ . Mother’s advice. It’d probably be easier to get out of his head if he didn’t  _ agree  _ with it.

Against his better instincts, he goes around and grabs all of the weapons from the defeated enemies and puts them in the box, then just starts… dragging it away. He could take it back home, he figures, and use it as a private weapons stash in case of emergency. You never know when you might need assault rifles or rocket launchers. But he’d be so hindered by Grayson and Pennyworth’s moralizing that there’d be no point. He’s certain that if he tried to shoot an enemy, they would immediately treat  _ him  _ as such and ignore whatever the actual threat is, probably getting them all killed. 

And, he realizes, Grayson would want him to leave behind all of these weapons for evidence. 

Slowly -- it takes longer than the fight itself did -- Damian starts dragging the adults to a lamppost and ties them up against it. One of the conscious men starts trying to bribe him (“Hey man, let us go, come on, I’ll give you a cut”) and Damian strikes the man in the face for the insult. After that, there’s no bargaining, and only a little bit of people trying to crawl away.

So  _ timewasting  _ tying everyone up so they can await GCPD. If Gotham’s truly as dangerous as everyone says it is, wouldn’t his time be better dedicated to something else? Incapacitating more threats?

Damian stews the entire time he’s working on it, then goes to look for his next target.

 

***

 

Damian arrives back at the Batbunker about 2:30 a.m., which he’s reasonably sure is before Grayson’s return. When he checks, the Batman suit is still out, so Grayson must be as well.

He hurriedly gets changed and starts scrubbing the Robin suit -- it’s still got a little vomit where that man barfed on him -- annoyed at his own haste, at the feeling like he has to  _ hide  _ something. He’s not even doing anything wrong, according to Grayson’s rules. But he’s not doing it on Grayson’s  _ terms _ , so the man would still freak out if he saw. Or do his version of freaking out.  _ Damian, we’ll go on patrol together. Damian, Robin’s obligated to team up with Batman. Damian, we’d work better operating out of the same building _ .  _  Damian, Damian, Damian.  _ Incessantly whining.  _ You’re small and weak and need my protection when we’re working.  _ Or maybe  _ you’re dangerous and psychotic and need my  _ permission _ to work.  _

__ It’s always the same. First Father, then Mother, then Grayson. Be a child (whose too dangerous to be left alone)! Be a warrior (who I’ll remove from action like a child)! Be a superhero (who has to follow me around like a sidekick)!

Damian balls his hands into fists and inhales deeply, trying to prevent himself from getting worked up. He can’t punch anything, he can’t let anyone know he was down here. So instead, he locks his uniform in his locker, verifies everything is how it was when he left, and makes his way up the elevator to the penthouse.

He tiptoes down the hall and enters his room without being interrupted, then quickly turns on a corner light -- not the overhead -- to give himself some light to draw. He could try to prepare a nice picture, something that can occupy him for the next couple days, but he just gets out some pencils for sketching. He doesn’t want to do something  _ nice _ ; he wants to get his anger and frustration out.

It isn’t until the pencil hits the paper that he really thinks of what he might draw. Possibility, he realizes. All of the blows he didn’t make. He draws the head of the man whose neck he was about to snap, but hangs his head on his neck at a 90 degree angle, let’s his eyes bulge out of his skull with surprise and his tongue hang limply from his mouth. It’s an ugly picture -- it’s  _ supposed  _ to be ugly. There’s nothing pretty about the exaggerated expression Damian’s associating with death here. He’s killed enough people to know that death is only pretty in poems or Renaissance paintings.

He flips to the next page. He wants another ugly picture. If he’d just decided to end the combat in the beginning, he thinks. If he’d just thrown an explosive straight into the box, detonating the warheads in the rocket propelled grenades inside. What’s an explosion do to a person that close up? Damian starts sketching the macabre scene. When he’s done, he sticks the notebook under the mattress of his bed, knowing he can’t let Pennyworth or Grayson see it. They’d use it as evidence that there’s something  _ wrong  _ with him, that he’s just like the people Batman and Robin are supposed to be hunting down.  _ Don’t you feel bad _ ? they’d ask.  _ Why don’t you feel bad _ ? 

_ Why don’t you feel bad for doing bad things unless you  _ are _ bad? _ And with that thought, Damian angrily punches his mattress and tries to force himself to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay Hi. It's been a while, but I'm trying to get back on the horse. Can't promise an update schedule, but I am definitely trying to get back in the swing of things.
> 
> We've seen some of Damian being frustrated and injured, so I thought it might be nice to see him actually getting shit done (granted, while still being frustrated... :P he's at a frustrating time in his life). Either way, I wanted a chapter to remember, hey, this kid is actually really competent. 
> 
> In b4: i don't think the batfam is actually as purely reactive as Damian is phrasing things, but you know... he's still getting used to the way things work. Also this chapter fulfilled a dream of using sphygmomanometer in my fic.
> 
> I feel like the action scenes are getting a little redundant just being anonymous Gotham thugs, but this fic is more character centric than plot centric... I'm still working out the exact villains I think will match up best with the characters.


	14. Overreach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick reflects on his training of Damian, and the two of them spar.

The first night out with Robin goes exactly how Dick hoped it would.

Okay, he  _ knows  _ it’s not Damian’s first night out -- there was his short experience before Jason shot him in the chest, and Damian must have seriously expected Dick to have neglected all of his detective skills if he  _ didn’t  _ notice the paper towels in the Batbunker’s trash can or a trace of splinters on the floor -- but Dick didn’t confront him about any of that. What would’ve been the point? Damian seemed uninjured at breakfast. As far as he can tell, there was no harm, no foul -- and besides, he remembers being Robin and sneaking out to do his own thing. Bruce confronting him about it never made him  _ stop _ , it only made him resolve to hide it better next time. No, instead he just hoped that now that Damian had gotten a last shot at some rebellion, he’d follow orders in the field tonight.

Which, he did. He was honestly in top form. He upgraded the Batmobile. He didn’t injure anyone too badly. And he spent a good chunk of the night in the zone Dick had mentally nicknamed the “trouble bubble” -- the three foot on his side, two foot on Damian’s side semi-circle that kept Batman and Robin in the prime opportunity to step back-to-back or defend each other -- though mostly, for Batman to defend Robin -- if the need arose. When Dick had told Bruce his nickname for the zone -- after Dick had found out its purpose, and why Bruce kept him in his shadow like that -- Bruce smiled slightly and gave a faint chuckle, giving him a hint that maybe even as Batman, he’s not as dour and serious as he seems all the time. However, Dick already knows what Damian would say (“Are you insinuating I’ll get in  _ trouble  _ and need you, Grayson? I don’t get in trouble; I  _ am  _ the trouble!”) so he kept the name to himself. 

“How was it?” Dick asks Damian as he’s taking off the cowl and putting Batman’s uniform away. He turns around and  _ expects  _ to see Damian similarly getting changed out of Robin, but the kid is just pacing antsily, like he’s still full of energy, like they hadn’t just been all over Gotham for a couple hours.

Or, of course, it could be the adrenaline. Dick’s not really  _ tired  _ yet, either; he just knows that staying in costume won’t help him get to sleep any time ever.

“What do you mean ‘how was it?’” Damian says. “You were right there. You  _ saw  _ my performance.”

“Uh… How did you like it, I mean?”

Damian makes that clicking noise Dick still has no clue what means. “Better than sitting around and doing nothing. I told you I heal fast.”

Dick resists the temptation to roll his eyes ( _ This again?  _ he thinks.  _ Seriously? _ ). Instead, he just finished taking off Batman’s kevlar chestplate and putting it back in his locker. “Aren’t you getting changed?” Dick asks.

Damian shrugs, but does take his domino mask off. Underneath the mask, his eyebrows were pulled together in an angry hard line, like he’s still ready to fight. “I’m going to train some more,” he says. “Set up the holo-room before you go to bed.”

Dick sighs and walks over to the computer console to get it set up. “You know,” Dick says. “You’re already Robin. You don’t  _ have  _ to prove anything.”

Damian gives Dick a skeptical look from the side of his eye. “I don’t have to prove anything  _ to you _ ,” he says. 

“Okay, but there’s no one else around.”

Damian grunts. “Don’t remind me.” 

Dick shrugs and decides to leave well-enough alone. He doesn’t really have the patience to deal with whatever’s putting Damian in a sour mood, but he doesn’t want to  _ lose  _ his patience and yell at him, because Damian actually did everything right today. So he figures he’ll leave the kid alone, since he’s been dropping hints he wants to be left alone, anyway. 

Still, he remembers being an eleven-year-old desperate for approval from a seemingly impassive Batman, so he figures he might as well  _ tell  _ Damian what he’s thinking. “You did good out there tonight,” he says. 

“ _ Tt _ . I know,” Damian says, vocally unaffected by the praise. But his shoulders to drop a hair; a little bit of tension slips out of his stance.

“I’m going to go watch TV,” Dick says. “You’re welcome to join me when you’re done training.”

“ _ Tt _ ,” Damian says again. And he’s off to the holo-room to train.

 

***

 

Dick wakes up the next afternoon, still on the couch, with the TV still turned on to the nature channel. Damian’s sitting at his feet, legs tucked underneath him in a compact little ball, and sketching. Dick shifts to check the time -- only 3 p.m., still early for him -- and Damian doesn’t really  _ jump  _ when Dick moves, but does quickly shut his sketchbook.

“You passed out on the couch like a drunken vagrant,” Damian says. “Pennyworth said not to disturb you.”

“If I was passing out drunkenly, there’d be some beer bottles lying around,” Dick says. He sits up and rubs his lower back a little. It’s a  _ little  _ sore from the position, not helped by the weird rounded couch, but it’ll pass quickly. At least, it always has in the past. “What are you drawing, anyway?”

Damian almost imperceptibly pulls his notebook closer to his chest protectively, but then opens it up, rips out a page, and hands it over.

Which… Dick didn’t  _ mean  _ to make him rip out a page, but he figures he’ll take it while it’s offered.

There are multiple sketches on the page, some just the barest outlines of a shape -- one of those being a cheetah with its legs extended as it runs at full speed -- but there’s also a pretty detailed lioness face in the bottom left corner, like he spent more time on it. It’s actually really good -- which Dick doesn’t  _ say _ , because “it’s  _ actually  _ really good” makes it sound like he expected it to  _ not  _ be. 

“You’re a pretty talented artist,” Dick says, once he’s formulated a nice-sounding compliment.

“I know.”

Dick grins a little. He figures this might be a good opportunity to hook Damian into some normal kid rituals, since Damian seemed so acutely aware of how non-normal-kid-y he was earlier. “Hey, you wanna hang it on the fridge -- ?”

Dick’s barely gotten the sentence out before Damian’s yanked the paper from his hands and crumpled it into a ball.

“What?”

“Don’t mock me, Grayson.” Damian’s scowl is real enough that Dick has no option but to assume he’s genuinely offended, even though Dick has no clue how or why.

“Uh…”

Damian quickly retreats with his sketchbook to his room and Dick slumps on the couch. The day just started and Damian’s already ticked at him for some reason. 

There are some light footsteps and a gurgle of the coffee maker from the kitchen, and Dick assumes that means Alfred must have heard him wake up. “How was it last night?” Alfred asks from behind him. “You fell asleep before I could ask.”

Dick shrugs and rotates around on the couch so he can see Alfie’s face. “Did you ask Damian?”

“He said your performance as Batman was ‘not so bad as to alert all the criminals of the ruse’, but you could still use some tips on your interrogation techniques.”

Dick rubs his face and groans. Is  _ he  _ the one being judged here? And seriously -- “the  _ ruse _ ”? Damian’s still going on that “you’re not my father; you don’t deserve to be Batman you imposter” thing? Like Dick’s not way too aware of that already?

“Was his assessment not entirely accurate?”

“Oh it was accurate,” Dick says. “He’s just being a dick about it.” Dick wonders if it’s a little petty to refer to a ten-year-old as a dick, but he hasn’t really met any ten-year-olds as aggravating as Damian. And besides, the kid’s not even in the room. He can't even hear it to get offended about it.

“And how was Master Damian?”

“He was good. Following orders and my lead, the whole shebang.”

“I do hope you  _ told  _ him he did well.”

“Of course I did; I’m not Bruce.” Dick cringes the instant the words are out of his mouth. 

If it brought up any bad feelings in Alfred, though, he doesn’t let it show on his face. He merely nods and says, “Then it sounds like you did the right thing.”

Dick frowns. 

“Do you…  _ not  _ agree?”

“I do,” Dick says. Well, he wouldn’t  _ try  _ to do not the right thing. But something still sits wrong with him. After a minute, he has it. “Did Bruce ever do this?” he asks.

“Do what, Master Dick?”

Dick shrugs. “You know. ‘Am I doing the right thing with this kid’?” Which isn’t  _ exactly  _ what he means, but coming out and  _ saying  _ it would just sound petty --

Well, Alfred always liked to mediate -- or maybe Bruce and Dick just were at each other’s throats enough later on that he  _ had  _ to. But Dick’s suddenly struck by an image of him of Alfred assuring  _ Damian  _ he’s doing the right thing to comfort  _ him _ . Or of a teenage version of himself running to Alfred for comfort, to receive assurances that he was in the right and Bruce was in the wrong, and then Bruce immediately doing the same thing, but with the positions reversed. 

And well, he’s suddenly wondering if the reassurances mean less that way, even though it’s stupid and petty. 

Alfred of course doesn’t know any of that. He just says, “You are aware of my position on your involvement when you were a child, Master Dick.” Again, it’s impossible to tell what he’s really thinking. 

“You thought it was a terrible idea,” Dick says.

Alfred nods.

“Do you  _ still  _ think it’s a terrible idea?”

“Obviously not.”

“Like with me, retroactively, or right now, with Damian?”

“Master Dick, could you tell me what this is all about?”

_ Just answer the question, _ Dick wants to say, but he doesn’t. It’s easier to just… not. “It’s not about anything,” Dick says. He stands up. “I was just thinking, is all.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond.

“I’m taking advantage of waking up early,” Dick says, “to go over what we got last night. Are you on Damian duty?”

“I’m on  _ everything  _ duty, Master Dick,” Alfred says with a smile. “Your coffee is being made and I can start breakfast as soon as you wish.” 

Dick shakes his head. “I’ll just get a bowl of cereal. But thanks.”

Alfred shrugs. “If that’s what you want,” he says, “then I’m going to grade Damian’s homework.”

Dick’s debating asking Alfred if the “I’m on  _ everything  _ duty” wasn’t a hint, if despite the smile, he wasn’t trying to subtly tell Dick that they should just hire a freaking tutor for Damian instead of giving him another full-time job. But he doesn’t, partially because he’s not sure Damian would get along with any civilian tutor, and also because he’s worried Alfred will take offense. So he just trods over to the kitchen to get his cereal and start his day early.

 

***

 

Dick goes to the Batbunker at six, when sparring training is supposed to start, to find Damian already down there, slicing through dummies, with a sword in his hands.

Dick purses his lips. He knows having a sword doesn’t mean you’ll kill people -- Donna gave him some basic swordsmanship lessons when they were bored in the Titans Tower, which he had to use to avoid getting skewered by Ra’s Al Ghul -- but he’s also pretty sure Damian could be devoting his time to you know. Non-lethal weapons. So he says as much.

“I wasn’t aware the new Robin came with a sword.”

Damian grunts and beheads the dummy in front of him, so Dick adds, “Or that we had infinite combat dummies.” 

Damian pauses his training and rests the sword on one shoulder. “What do you want, Grayson?”

“You know, if you want to have a weapon while you’re fighting, you could always get a bo staff -- ”

“Drake’s toy,” Damian says dismissively.

“ -- Or escrimas.” 

“Circus sticks.”

“They’re from the Phillipines. Not the circus.”

“But  _ you  _ are.”

“I just want to make sure that what you’re practicing in here compliments what we’re doing out there. If you’re practicing beheading people -- ”

Damian rolls his eyes and makes a noise of visceral disgust. 

Dick bites back a groan. He  _ thought _ he was making a pretty reasonable suggestion. It’s not like he  _ never  _ wants Damian to use his weapons, he just thought that making sure he develops some good non-lethal training instincts is important first.  _ I mean, wasn’t that what the last two weeks were about? _

“You don’t have to worry about me,  _ Grayson _ ,” Damian says, putting a weird amount of emphasis on Dick’s last name. “I’ve been training with this since I could stand. I’ve sparred my  _ mother  _ with bladed weapons. We’re both alive. I have excellent control with it.”

Which… Dick believes. As far as he could tell, the Al Ghuls were obsessed with swords. He guesses to the point of sparring children with sharp weaponry.

Before Dick can get into the inherent sketchiness of that topic, Damian adds, “I have no accidental deaths with it.”

Man this kid is giving him sympathy-whiplash. “So all of the people you killed, you meant to?”

Damian lifts up his chin a little. Dick can’t tell whether it’s  _ proudly  _ or merely defiant of Dick’s implicit judgement. “Yes,” Damian says. 

__ _ That’s even worse _ Dick wants to say. But he doesn’t. He just grimaces and inhales deeply.

“There’s no winning with you,” Damian says. He points his sword at Dick accusatorily. “If I didn’t mean to do it, it’s evidence I’m not in control of my actions and need to be contained. If I did, it’s evidence I’m bad and need to be contained.”

“No one’s ‘containing’ you, Damian! You’re Robin, if you weren’t paying attention!”

“Then since my father trusted me in this role, maybe you should too,” Damian says. 

That fake letter is going to make Damian (more) unbearable isn’t it? But Dick lets him have it. “Fine,” he says. “We can spar like this if you want to. But you have to leave it in when we’re going on patrol.” 

“I did last night, didn’t I?”

Dick doesn’t bother answering. He  _ does  _ get changed into his costume, though, because allegedly perfect control or not, Dick still wants armor when fighting someone who has a sword. 

He could use his escrimas for the fight -- they are just in training, no one’s around to see Batman using weapons uncharacteristic of him -- but he figures that practicing like this might actually be good. He’s not used to fighting someone hand-to-hand when they have a sword, but  _ Batman  _ would be. And better to get all of the kinks out of his style when he’s not at risk of dying.

Damian, however, didn’t bother getting changed into Robin. He stays in his regular black sparring clothes, and spent pretty much the entire time Dick was getting changed practicing with his sword and decapitating more dummies.

“You don’t want a weapon?” Damian asks when they line up across from each other.

Dick shakes his head.

“ _ Tt _ . You’ll need one.”

And with that, Damian initiates the combat. A quick charge at Dick that would have straight up skewered an unarmored opponent had it connected. Dick didn’t let it connect -- he just jumped straight over Damian’s head, which he’ll confess, was maybe a  _ little  _ obnoxious and showy.

The instant he lands, he can already hear a  _ woosh  _ of air and knows Damian’s probably attacking his unguarded back, so he rolls away. As he does, the sword makes contact, but just as a glancing blow.

“Good,” he says, once he’s put two arm spans between them. “You’re quick to adapt to a mobile opponent.”

Damian scowls and begins circling Dick, looking for a weak spot. Dick thinks about coming in with a jab, but honestly, even with Damian’s tiny frame, Dick’s got a reach disadvantage when Damian has the sword. Damian makes a few glancing blows at Dick’s arms, testing his guard. Dick backs out of this reach and deflects what he can with Batman’s gauntlets. Dick’s similarly looking for a weakness in Damian’s guard, but he doesn’t see any -- yet. 

Damian comes in again with a stab, and Dick spins out of the way. As he does so, there’s a sudden  _ yonk  _ and he can’t move, stopped at the neck, and he barely gets his arms up in time to stop an unarmed Damian from punching him in the chin. When he’s trapped Damian’s arm, the kid headbutts him in the teeth. 

Damian steps back and walks behind Dick and withdraws his sword from the ground. Now, Dick can see the whole picture -- while Batman’s cape had been in motion from the spin, Damian had pinned it to the ground with his sword, which was honestly an inspired move on his part. And part of the evidence for why Nightwing doesn’t wear capes.  

“Good work,” Dick says, and quickly runs his tongue over his teeth to make sure Damian didn’t loosen any of them. “Using what’s available to you to your advantage. Just as Robin should.”

Damian rolls his eyes and raises his sword defensively in both hands, and Dick figures, what the hell, he might as well oblige the kid. However, he decides there’s no reason to keep using hand-to-hand combat on an admittedly good swordsman, so he takes a batarang out from the utility belt and throws it in a way that  _ would  _ have made Damian drop his sword, had he not anticipated the move and repositioned himself. But it served the function Dick wanted -- distracting Damian while Dick crossed some of the distance between them. Damian backs up, slashing at Dick’s arms defensively.

“With the sword, your reach is longer than mine,” Dick says. He smiles a little. “Using it to your advantage.”   
Damian’s scowl seems to deepen with each new comment Dick makes. He telegraphs ever so slightly -- elbow dropped, stance shifting, preparing to come at Dick with a stab again -- and Dick takes advantage. He figures he might try something Batman could do that Nightwing couldn’t -- make the cape work  _ for _ , instead of against him --

And grabs the edge of Batman’s cape and wraps it around the sword as Damian comes in. When he’s got it wrapped up, he pulls it away from Damian, and since Damian is unwilling to let go, knees the kid in the face when his face presents itself in knee range.

Damian sprawls backwards but quickly hops to his feet. 

Dick digs the sword out of his cape and holds it in one hand. It fits perfectly -- it clearly wasn’t custom made for a kid. “Okay, now you show me,” he says. “The situation’s reversed. Against an armed opponent with a superior reach, what do you do?”

Damian puts his weight on the balls of his feet and bends his knees. His stance is more cautious, tentative, and he’s poised like he wants to do something but isn’t entirely sure of what.

Dick really feels unfair like this, considering he got changed into Batman and has a weapon and Damian didn’t bother getting changed into Robin before sparring -- so more than being reversed, the situation is now decidedly in Dick’s favor. But he’s also wondering if it won’t be a good lesson. Unarmed combat against an armed opponent with superior reach and experience is something he might need in the future, even if Dick can tell that in the now, Damian is annoyed at himself.

“Come on,” Dick says. “You can do it.”

“Stop trying to  _ distract  _ me with all your incessant prattling,” Damian snaps.

Or maybe he’s annoyed at Dick. Heck, Dick doesn’t blame him. He remembers being pretty ticked when it felt like he was being asked to fight a match he couldn’t win in training. 

Damian keeps glancing over Dick, and then quickly over the mostly empty sparring room, and Dick can just imagine the gears turning in his head. Unless Dick makes the first move and over extends himself in some way, Damian coming in at him is going to be  _ really  _ difficult. Dick will just be able to re-position himself and stab him and --

Dick realizes, he’s surprised Damian hasn’t taken advantage of the fact that Dick’s not  _ actually  _ going to stab him. Damian doesn’t have any armor on, after all. With a sword in his hands, Dick is  _ more  _ handicapped in this situation than he would be otherwise. 

Damian quickly takes a couple more steps back, increasing the distance between them further, and then yanks his shirt off in one motion and twists it, treating it almost like a chain he’s holding with both hands, one on each end. Some type of tool is better than none, Dick supposes, and he wonders if he’s going to try to mimic the thing Dick did with the cape.

Damian tentatively approaches Dick, still out of reach of the sword. It would be easy to just come in with an attack now and hope Damian dodges it, but Dick really isn’t wanting to bet on that, no matter how offended Damian would be at him playing it safe. Instead he waits with the sword raised defensively, letting himself seem way more patient than he feels. 

Damian starts circling Dick, and Dick just rotates in his spot, not letting the kid get behind him. Eventually, Damian must have decided that  _ one  _ of them had to do something, because he runs in despite the reach disadvantage. Dick prepares a tentative blow at waist height and Damian drops to the ground and slides at Dick’s knees like a baseball player, holding his make-shift tool up, preparing to catch Dick’s sword arm when he swings.

It’s still an extremely disadvantageous entrance on Damian’s part, Dick knows. Dick changes the trajectory of the sword to bring it down near Damian but can’t really follow through, and the kid slides between his legs, behind him, and elbows him hard in the back of the knee and a jolt of pain shoots up his leg, because the joins aren’t really as armored as the rest and Damian  _ did  _ put a lot of force into that. 

Dick falls to one knee to let the one that took the blow rest. He kind of expects Damian to be looking triumphant, but the kid is just scowling down at him, annoyed.

“I’m not an idiot,” Damian says. He grabs his sword from where Dick dropped it and says, “I can tell when you’re lining up for a blow and decide not to make it, you know.”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t going to stab a  _ ten-year-old  _ in a  _ training situation _ ,” Dick says, trying to keep his voice light, like they’re just bantering. “I’m not a monster.”

Damian does not return the favor of lightness. He just looks at Dick from the corner of his eye and says, “My family aren’t monsters.”

“I didn’t say they were.”

“You were  _ thinking  _ it.” 

Dick wants to say that if he’s not even allowed to  _ internally  _ judge the Al Ghuls, this is going to be a really stressful partnership. But he doesn’t. He just says, “Look, my point is, I shouldn’t have taken your sword. I wasn’t going to use it, anyway.” And then, he adds, unsure whether the assurance is necessary (“no one’s going to hurt you, you don’t have to follow assassin sparring rules”), or insulting (insinuating again that the people who raised him were monsters), “You’re safe here.” 

Damian’s knuckles whiten as he squeezes the hilt of the sword tighter. “Just stick to what you know, Grayson, and keep your nose out of things you don’t. I don’t  _ have  _ to respect your expertise if you don’t  _ demonstrate  _ any.”

Right then. Damian definitely decided to take offense to it, then. “Get into your Robin gear then,” Dick says. “Because I know Robin a  _ ton _ , and we’re going out tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters where I can't tell if nothing happened in it, but I figured since I wrote it, I might as well post it.
> 
> I'm definitely playing up the conflict between Dick and Damian, but still hope that we can see that Dick is trying.
> 
> Misc comments:
> 
> "Trouble bubble" is not my invention. It's a term my friend used for a buff a tank in video games could apply to one of their squishy teammates (it was... bubble shaped and absorbed damage). But it was a fun name and Dick likes wordplay often so I used it.
> 
> The reason for the way Batman and Robin's combat is described like it is, because it seems like especially in 2009 era stuff, there was an emphasis on Batman and Robin being really effective together. Especially in Morrison's Batman and Robin run, Dick and Damian punch or kick the bad guys synchronously so often, and in the 2009 Batgirl run there's an emphasis about Batman and Robin seeming professional or seasoned at this and working together. 
> 
> I have no clue if Donna ever gave Dick sword fighting lessons in canon, but I figured he might have learned how to use one before, because he manages to fight Ra's Al Ghul with one without you know, dying. And an Amazonian friend seems like the ideal teacher, right? 
> 
> Dick talks so much in the sparring scene because IIRC there's a canon sparring scene between Dick and Damian where Damian gets on Dick for talking and "distracting him". I didn't feel like repeating the exact interaction here. There is going to be some inevitable overlap of what happens in the comics in this fic, but I want to limit it as much as possible to avoid it feeling redundant for people who have read the comics. Next chapter will definitely have the overlap tho just for the warning.


	15. The Runaway Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being told he was wrong one too many times, Damian gets fed up with Dick and strikes out on his own. Note: Covers a lot of Batman and Robin (2009) #2 here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This chapter has a brief torture scene. The same scene happened in Batman and Robin #2, but they cut away from it.
> 
> Second note: This covers lots of the same events as Batman and Robin #2. Reasons for any deviations and the reason I chose to include it are included at the bottom.

After an incredibly judgemental training session on Dick’s part, Damian sits down by the Batmobile to tinker with it some more.

It’s relaxing. It’s something he can fix that can’t talk back to him about why _he_ needs to be fixed. It’s something of his father’s that Grayson can’t appropriate or pervert. Damian tries to shut his eyes and imagine what Father would say right now, if they were working on it together --

But he can’t. When they met in person, Father had never given any inclination he’d later change his mind. The closest he came was commanding Damian to fight when they were surrounded in Nanda Parbat. That… that counts right?

_It counts_ , Damian tells himself.

Father’s voice: _What makes you think I'll let you stay here long enough to try again?_

_It counts_ , Damian thinks again. Father just… didn’t know the whole situation then, when he said that. But he must have seen something in Damian later. He must have.

The elevator door dings open and Pennyworth arrives. The smell of cooked chicken wafts through the room.

From his spot in front of the computer, still staring over what they uncovered last night, Dick says, “Hey, Alfred. Turns out domino tiles are also known as _bones_. I bet you knew that, right?”

Damian wants to know why Grayson thinks _Pennyworth_ will be able to solve the mystery of the drug dealer who gets paid in toys, but he doesn’t ask. He’s worried Grayson will take the question as an invitation to talk more.

“‘Smacking down the bones’,” Pennyworth quotes. Then, to Damian, he says, “Master Damian, a light supper is served.”

Damian grunts. “You can leave it by my tool kit, Pennyworth.” After a moment, he adds, “Thank you.”

Pennyworth does not take the “thank you” as a dismissal. Instead, he hovers around Damian’s head, obscuring the light of what he’s working on. “Remarkable work, if I do say so,” he says. “The gyroscopic array was an endless source of frustration for your father, as I recall.”

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. It’s like Pennyworth could see his thoughts, see his doubts about Father. Again. “I told you I’d carry on my father’s work,” Damian says, and then adds, in case Pennyworth missed the subtle hints to leave him alone, “That will be _all_ , Pennyworth.”

Pennyworth finally gets the message and goes to take dinner to Grayson. Grayson starts going on about missing the current enemy in his databases, and Damian can’t help but roll his eyes. What does he need someone to _tell_ him about their enemy? And Damian thought father’s people prided themselves on their _detective_ skills.

“I’m running some of the residue on Toad’s briefcase from last night,” Grayson says. “I mean, it’s _probably_ nothing, initial scans read it as a cold virus, but…”

“You were taught to leave no stone unturned?” Pennyworth asks.

A sigh on Grayson’s part. “Yeah. That’s what…” a little pause, a heaviness in his voice. “That’s what being Batman and Robin is all about.”

“Indeed,” Pennyworth says. “And on that note... Are you looking forward to your first week in earnest as Batman with your own Robin?”

“Yeah,” Grayson says. “I just wish I could shake the feeling that I’m wearing a shroud.”

Damian scowls at that. He doesn’t even know why Grayson is bringing up this; it’s not _Grayson’s_ father who got killed, it’s his. It’s Damian’s. And Damian never even got to hear him say --

To hear him say that he did good work.

Damian steps away from his toolkit and crosses the space between them. He clicks his tongue against his teeth and says, “If you’re not up to it, stand _aside_ , Grayson. I was born for this job, trained in the arts of war by my mother and the rest of the masters in the League of Shadows. I could just as easily continue my father’s work without you.”

Damian says it partly to get Grayson to object, because he knows neither Grayson nor Pennyworth can see any connection with Damian’s training and his situation right now, despite the same rigid adherence to discipline and violence. Because of the way Grayson reacted when they were sparring. Does the man think Damian is socially stunted, that he couldn’t recognize the expressions of horror Grayson had permitted himself upon hearing the conditions of his training?

But Grayson doesn’t object. He just says, “Maybe _one_ day, but not _today_ , Damian. Did you finish what you were working on with the Batmobile?”

“ _Tt_. Have I ever failed?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then,” Grayson says, and pulls up his cowl. As he does he seems to change his posture, no longer resting slightly on the computer console and making sad dog eyes at Pennyworth.

As it should be. Leaving whatever insulting and appropriated weakness that’s afflicted him in the bunker. Time to go to _work_.

Grayson nods then, and says, “C’mon, kiddo, let’s go.”

“‘Kiddo’?” Damian grumbles. “Do you enjoy your viscera being on the inside of your abdominal cavity, Grayson?”

“No real names in costume,” Grayson says, not deigning to respond to the threat.

Damian frowns. He knows they both are acutely aware of the fact that Damian wouldn’t _actually_ attack him, but he still misses when his threats meant something --

Well, he actually can’t recall threatening many of his subordinates in the League of Shadows. No one ever needed it, because he had _respect_. Which is what’s missing from his and Grayson’s interaction right now. Damian’s been upholding his end of the bargain: he’s been following the nonsensical rules laid down by Grayson, he’s been giving as much of his _all_ in combat as he can when handicapped in such a manner, he fixed the Batmobile without prompting or invitation. What’s Grayson done, other than alternating between infantilizing and demonizing him? He certainly hasn’t been upholding his father’s image as Batman: he can’t even do the voice right, he doesn’t look like him, doesn’t act like him -- even when he’s attempting to be menacing it’s insultingly _non-_ menacing, emphasizing his own weakness rather than his strength.

After a couple minutes in the air, they’re quickly diverted to Gotham Police Station, where the bat-signal is up in the sky -- and even though it’s _tradition_ , Damian can’t help but roll his eyes. He never would have been allowed to beg for help on his missions, but the police don’t have such dignity. In front of the officers is Gordon, and Damian wonders if he’s going to have to put on a silly voice as Robin -- after all, he _did_ meet Gordon in person.

Fortunately (and it’s a weird thing to feel fortunate about) Grayson takes over, using his parody of Father’s voice. Damian doesn’t have to say anything.

Grayson starts to make up excuses for why they’ve been inactive as of late and Damian scans for enemies while Grayson is busying himself with small talk. Some of the police officers are giving him untrusting looks, and --

_Hmm._ Unfortunate. One of them conspicuously has an eyepatch over one eye, the police officer Damian stabbed a couple weeks ago. Damian’s wondering if he put two-and-two together -- the anonymous child combatant working with Nightwing, and the new Robin, who has the same body type and complexion.

Damian decides not to care. _Grayson_ , however, obviously does. His body language is _subtle_ , but Damian can still catch the occasional glance at the casualty. Guilty. Even though he didn’t _do_ anything.

Gordon must not know, because he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he asks Grayson in a soft voice: “Another one?” with a look to Damian. “What happened to the last one?”

“He graduated,” Grayson says.

Damian rolls his eyes. He bites back the _He was fired_ correction (after all, if Father was making him Robin, didn’t he know Drake couldn’t be?), because he wants to avoid stretching this confrontation out any longer than it needs to be. And, saving them from yet more of Grayson’s small talk, one of the officers grabs his walkie talkie and says “Sir. It’s Casey at the desk. Something’s up. Trouble.”

Damian relaxes his stance and prepares to _move_. They’re in his domain now, not Grayson’s. Combat, not small talk. But he can’t make the first move, because he doesn’t know where the front desk is.

_Grayson_ does, and he’s off in an instant. Damian follows him just a pace behind. Grayson bursts through the roof entrance of the police station and jumps over the side of the staircase railing, only reaching for his grappling line when he starts falling. Damian does the same, and the two land near-simultaneously two stories down, quicker than any of the officers on the roof. Perfection, exactly as they practiced.

An explosion goes off, almost like they’re in a warzone, not a police station, and the acrid smell of gas wafts in from the next room. Without prompting, Damian secures his gas mask to his face.

Damian takes the lead, opening up the door to see the scene in the next room. There’s someone with his face literally on fire, but he doesn’t seem _bothered_ by it, dusting off his hands and humming happily. A circus strongwoman shoving a gun in an officer’s face. Three identical men standing back-to-back , almost as if they've been tied together, with their hands up, prepared for combat. And a dead police officer on the floor.

Damian leaves the strongwoman for Grayson; he knows Grayson distrusts his capacity to disarm an opponent without killing them _and_ she is pointing a gun straight at someone’s face. Instead, he focuses on the three men prepared for combat. If they want a fight, they’re about to get it.

He leaps across the room, confident enough that Grayson can manage his part, but as he’s in the air, he gets kicked into a wall by one of the men. He’s only just landed on the floor, not even had time to get his bearings, when another strikes right at him, and he barely ducks in time as the enemy’s foot collides with the wall behind him, dusting him in plaster.

It takes all of Damian’s considerable training to block the assailment. The men move in perfect synchronization -- Batman and Robin _wish_ they could work like that -- and two on the outside prevent him from dodging out of the way and using his mobility to his advantage -- he’s forced to parry blows from three combatants at once with his back to the wall. It’s … not a good position to be in.

One of them makes a mistake – pulling back his leg to come in for a hard sidekick, creating an opening that Damian can dash through. And he does. But just as he’s about to regain the advantage in combat, Grayson says, “Robin, step aside.”

_Tt_. Doesn’t he _trust_ him at all? And speaking of which -- where’s the combatant _Grayson_ was supposed to eliminate? “What about the woman?” he asks.

Grayson doesn’t respond; he just charges the three men with a kick, using his superior body size to shove them back, whereas Damian couldn’t. Damian rolls his eyes. _He’ll_ solve Grayson’s problem, if his alleged mentor hadn’t.

He dashes off, leaving Grayson to deal with the combatants in this room. Down the hallway, he sees a pair of legs being dragged behind a corner -- it must be the hostage officer. He runs.

Around the corner, the strongwoman is dragging the officer by his hair -- why isn’t he fighting back? doesn’t he feel _embarrassed_? -- but doesn’t seem to have her gun, so Grayson must have disarmed her on that front. She holds out a hand to Damian, warding him off, which would be a lot more effective if she had _bullets_. “Don’t come closer,” she says.

“I don’t _need_ to. I can cripple you from here.”

Damian makes good on his promise -- he throws two batarangs, and at least one of them finds its mark between her acromion and humerus. She yelps, and Damian charges her while she’s distracted by the pain.

With her good arm, she catches him mid-charge and slams him into the wall. Stars shoot through Damian’s vision -- the _second_ time he’s allowed himself to be tossed about like a sack of potatoes today. It will be the last.

Damian blinks, too slow for a moment, as she grabs two weapons – they appear to be two beaten-up, metal of canes that she’s wielding like escrimas. One strikes the wall behind him and he hears a _screech_ of metal on brick and realizes they might be sharp.

The same as _Grayson’s_ lesson from earlier today, then. But she’s not using the weapons to her advantage -- she’s still close, in Damian’s personal space, which he assumes is _supposed_ to be intimidating, but it really just keeps them equal, still allowing _him_ to go on the attack. As she’s on the slow draw-back of a sword embedded in the wall, Damian grabs her hand by the pinkie and thumb, kicks her in the face, and rotates the hand over as he moves with the kick, putting his entire body weight into the wrist break. She yells again.

In the din of the background noise, Damian can hear Grayson yelling his name -- Robin, he means -- but Damian’s already busy with his own fight, and honestly Grayson had already acted like _Robin_ needed help, but now he’s begging for it as Batman? Amateur. Condescending amateur. Instead, Damian decides to finish off the strongwoman.

With two arms crippled, she doesn’t pose much of a threat, but not _much_ of a threat isn’t acceptable. Only _no_ threat is.

The officer the woman had been dragging behind is now crawling away, through the hallway lined with temporary holding cells, and attempts to pull himself up on a wooden stool next to an empty bucket. He doesn’t succeed, but he _does_ give Damian an idea.

The strongwoman kicks at Damian, but it’s slower than her punches were, she’s clearly not trained in the matter. Damian hops across the room, grabs the bucket near the wounded officer, and turns to face his opponent. Another batarang, this time to her knee, right under her patella, and she falls to the ground. Damian runs over, elbows her in the face, and slams the bucket over her head.

_Grayson’s_ inspiration, really. Grayson hanging a blindfolded Toad up above a roof and pretending they were above a ninety-meter drop _may_ have been to fool Toad into thinking he was really in danger, but Damian also knows that without the sense of sight, an opponent is ill-at-ease, they can’t see you or figure out what you’re doing. Their mind fills in the blanks with something more horrifying than reality. They’re easier to intimidate.

However, Grayson clearly was missing something from his strategy. A _reason_ for anyone to believe they’re in danger. So Damian snatches the stool from the officer's hands, smashes it against the floor, and grabs the legs as improvised escrimas.

“You got her…” mumbles the wounded officer. “Good work…”

Damian ignores him. Instead he approaches his enemy. She tries to get the bucket off with her right arm, but it won’t raise all the way with the batarang in her shoulder. Damian kicks her hand to the floor and stomps on it.

“Where’s your boss?” Damian asks. He hopes she’s had enough damage done to her body that she understands talking is _really_ in her best interests, but he’s not expecting it. Gotham criminals don’t seem to be excessively smart.

She doesn’t answer, so Damian draws back his weapon and hits her on the head as hard as he can.

“What are you planning?”

Again, he is met with silence.

A rush of footsteps in the hallway; Damian has to speed this up before Grayson can come in and insist on restraining him, insist on making him do everything weakly and ineffectively. He starts with a flurry of blows, one with each weapon, to the sides of her head.

“Wait,” she mutters.

Damian draws back a weapon, an implicit threat she can’t see.

“We were gonna…” the rest of the words are incoherent.

“Speak fast.”

She pauses, so Damian hits her on the head again to remind her of the severity of the situation.

The flurry of footsteps arrive. It’s Gordon and one or two officers in pursuit. They draw their guns on him. Like _he’s_ the enemy here. Didn’t they notice that the person he’s _interrogating_ is the one who killed their compatriots?

“Step away from the suspect!” Gordon shouts.

Damian doesn’t bother listening. If the police wanted Batman and Robin’s help, they should really be prepared for the form in which they’ll _receive_ it.

“Ow! We were gonna attack the city, okay?”

“How?” _Whack!_ “Where?” _Whack!_ “With what?” _Whack!_

“Wooden gallopers…” 

_Tt_. That was useless.

“I’m giving you one last warning --!” Gordon yells.

Damian hits one escrima against the bucket on the strongwoman’s head so hard it breaks in half. “What does that _mean_?” he asks. “‘Wooden gallopers’. Where?!”

A rush of footsteps and a _whoosh_ of a cape in motion, and Damian knows his time is up. _Grayson_ charges in and catches Damian’s raised hand, stopping a final strike.

“ _Enough_!” Grayson yells, commanding, like he _deserves_ to command after this debacle.

“I almost had it out of her!” Damian says. Doesn’t Grayson _see_ that? Doesn’t he _see_ that pain is a much more effective interrogation route than mere fear? “Her boss is planning an attack on the city!”

“And now she has a concussion!” Gordon says. He still hasn’t lowered his gun, despite Grayson’s intervention. “Step away!”

Damian balls his hand into a fist. He wants to fight the commissioner. Who does he think he is, pulling guns on _him_? Does he actually think he could win?

Before they can do anything, one of the officers checks a holding cell and says, “Sir, you should check this out. It’s the Toad. He croaked.”

Gordon puts his gun away -- good decision on _his_ part -- and turns to the officers. “And nobody _saw_ this going on? Someone just killed a suspect right under our noses and nobody saw who did it?”

Grayson starts ushering Damian out of the police station, like he did when Damian attacked the police earlier. Does he think the police will try to arrest him _again_? Even when he didn’t attack any of them this time?

“Robin, what were you _thinking_?” Grayson asks, as he escorts them to the Batmobile.

Damian shakes him off. He doesn’t want Grayson’s patronizing hovering, his moving him around as if he has to protect Damian from the police -- or protect _them_ from Damian. Damian’s unsure which option is worse.

“I was _interrogating a suspect_ ,” Damian says as he hops in the Batmobile. “Like you do.”

“You were _torturing_ someone!”

“Which motivates them to talk, don’t you think?”

Grayson groans. His hands squeeze the steering wheel, and Damian’s wondering if he’s imagining it’s his neck. If there’s a crack in his moralistic facade.

“After all of the training we were doing to work on you being _non-lethal_ \-- ”

“I’m not an idiot, Gr -- Batman,” Damian says, even though Grayson doesn’t _deserve_ the name, just to avoid the ‘no real names in costume’ lecture. “I wasn’t going to kill her. You can’t get any information out of a corpse.”

“Oh my God,” Grayson says softly.

“ _And_ I wasn’t even using lethal weaponry. I didn’t use her swords, even though they were _right there_ ; I made some escrimas, like you do!”

“Robin, do you honestly think it matters _which_ weapon you use to beat a defeated opponent with?”

“ _You_ clearly do!” That was Grayson’s _thing_ during training, wasn’t it? _Put away the swords, don’t practice with lethal weaponry, blah blah blah_.

“You’re not supposed to do it in the first place!” Grayson yells. “Intimidation is one thing, but there have to be _limits_ , Robin.”

Damian crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. “ _Tt._ Limits!”

Grayson pulls in the Batbunker, and not a moment too soon, because Damian’s sure that if they spent any more time in the small car together, they’d come to blows. He hops out before it’s even finished parking.

Even though _Damian_ is walking away, a clear invitation for Grayson to shut the fuck up, Grayson keeps lecturing.

“Yes! Limits! We step over the line, and Gordon won’t _hesitate_ to hunt us down!”

“Let him try!” Is Damian supposed to be intimidated by an inept police force that couldn’t even maintain order without his father’s help? “I already haven’t killed anyone, now you want me to play _nice_ with the police as well?”

“ _Yes_!”

“Why?!”

“‘Why’?” Grayson mimics back at him. “What are you, a child?” A pause as he realizes the answer to that question. “If you want an answer beyond ‘it’s wrong’, how about ‘not alienating your allies’ --”

Damian scoffs. “What ‘allies’? If you didn’t notice, we were the only ones doing anything in there, Grayson! The police are incompetents. We’re in this on our own!”

Grayson takes a step towards him, leaned slightly forward over him, and Damian wonders if he isn’t trying to intimidate him. It doesn’t work, which is yet more proof of is insulting inability to be Batman. “Being Batman and Robin isn’t about working alone and thinking with your fists! What about _detective skills_? What about learning how to obey a direct order?!”

Damian feels his upper lip curling involuntarily in a snarl. Can Grayson even _see_ himself? See how impotent and ridiculous he looks and sounds? “Look at you!” Damian says. He exhales sharply, buying himself a little bit of time to translate the sentence in his head. It needs to come out perfect so Grayson understands exactly how stupid he's being. “This pathetic impersonation of my father makes a mockery of his memory. Keep your detective skills and orders and limits!”

Damian takes a step away from Grayson, if only to avoid punching the man in the stomach. It wouldn’t do any good -- even if Damian beat him senseless, Grayson’s too high on his own self-righteousness to ever listen to him. “I’ll do this _my_ way!” he says. As he should have from the beginning.

“How? You’re _ten years old_ , Damian,” Grayson says, frustrated enough to drop his inane ‘no names in costume’ rule. “You have a _lot_ to learn.”

Damian rips off the _R_ insignia on his costume and tosses it on the ground at Grayson’s feet. “Then I’ll find a teacher I _respect_!”

Damian turns his back on Grayson -- it feels _weird_ to turn his back on a hostile person, but Grayson’s hostility is tamed enough that he’s only capable of yelling some more. “Get back here, Damian!” Grayson shouts. Like a dog chained up in a yard. Only capable of barking, not defending its territory. And to think Damian was concerned about the man's reaction when he’d killed someone. To think he’d feared some type of punishment.

Grayson shouts, more useless than before, “That’s an order!”

_If you have to clarify it’s an order, you’re terrible at giving orders_. Damian can’t believe he ever listened to Grayson, ever let the man try to change him into something he’s not. Damian completely ignores him -- something he’d never have gotten away with in the League of Shadows -- and gets on the motorcycle he never even got to try out before now. But it’s red, too small for an adult, and clearly his.

Grayson yells something again, but Damian revs the motor over his useless words and takes off. As he exits the bunker and the cool night air hits his face, he feels tension he didn’t even realise he had leave his body. It wasn’t clear _exactly_ how much Grayson was stressing him out until now. Damian’s finished actual _combat_ and not had that same demarcation between tension and relief. Grayson’s worse to be around than people who are shooting at him.

Damian blinks. His face feels warm and he doesn’t know why. A shudder runs through his body. A loss of control musculoskeletal control. Why? Did he get poisoned? When did the opportunity even present itself?

He pulls the motorcycle over to the side of the road. He can’t lose control of a two-hundred kilo machine at a hundred kilometers per hour and expect to walk away. He walks the motorcycle to an ally between two apartment buildings, checks to see if anyone’s around, and leans against a wall and sits on the ground.

Above him, the air conditioning units in the apartment windows seem almost to spin. Damian takes a deep breath and reaches for his utility belt. There are some antidotes here -- fear toxin, joker venom, naloxone -- but he doesn’t know the _source_ of the illness yet.

Right. How to discern? He needs his vital statistics first -- he takes off his glove on his right hand, presses his index and middle fingers right underneath his jawbone, and starts taking his pulse. As he counts the seconds, his breathing starts to slow -- he hadn’t even realized he’d been taking shallow, short breaths until now.

Oh.

Eighteen heartbeats in the first ten seconds, sixteen in the next, and thirteen in the next, as he keeps counting and breathing. He wasn’t _poisoned_. He was freaking out.

…

That almost makes it worse.

He takes off this mask very quickly and frantically rubs at his eyes. He’s glad he left, glad no one can see him like this. Since he was very small, he’s always tried to keep these bouts of weakness away from witnesses, away from anyone who could use them against him. It’s not fitting behavior for an Al Ghul, and he’s sure neither is it fitting for the son of Batman.

And speaking of that --

Damian puts his domino mask back on.

He still has a _mission_. The luxury of a breakdown is one that’s never been permitted to him in ten years of life, and it's certainly not one he has now. Just because he left Grayson doesn't meant he's giving up on everything he's been working towards this last month. Everything Father left for him.

Grayson had prevented him from getting the intel the easy way, so it’s up to Damian to do it the hard way. What information does he have at his disposal?

The enemy is fairly obscure -- Grayson couldn’t find traces of them in his databases. Ostentatiously themed, like too many Gotham reprobates. Circus themed. Cirque d’Etrange. Bad French for Circus of the Strange.

What else? Toad had dominoes in his suitcase -- Grayson asked what kind of criminal wants to be paid in _dominoes_. The strongwoman had two metal canes sharpened at the edges as weapons. Unusual weapons, she must have gotten them _somewhere_ , and the shoddiness of them looked almost improvised, as if she had used an object originally having a different function, like the stool legs Damian turned into escrimas earlier.

… _Tent pegs_. Obviously. The enormous _size_ of the things had thrown him off, but they could easily be nailed into the ground to pitch a giant tent, like one at the circus.

And then there were her _words_. Wooden gallopers, she said. Unless he’s missing a subtlety of English, it’s just from the verb _to gallop_. Nominalization, Damian thinks it’s called. You add a _-er_ suffix and it becomes galloper, meaning one who gallops. Which are… usually horses?

Damian groans. This is stupid. He’s never had so little to go on in any of his missions before --

But he’s never let anything stop him before, either.

A wooden type of horse, then. It sounds like a toy for a child, but Damian can’t possibly connect it to any image or experience because for once in his life, his dearth of normal childhood experiences is a disadvantage.

If Damian had his phone, he could use the internet to find out where to look, since it was one of those phones that isn’t even made with verbal communication in mind. Grayson and Pennyworth seemed to use theirs primarily to connect to the internet or store family photos. Damian’s not sure he’s ever even seen them make a phone call with them.

The point is moot -- phones are left behind on patrol, just as real names are. No if he wants to outsource his thinking like Grayson did -- a process of which he now understands the necessity, having neither the knowledge of Gotham to know where to go nor the prerequisite childhood experiences with wooden horses -- he has to find some other way to connect to the internet or search through records. The library, maybe. It would be closed, now, being past midnight. But Damian can always break in. And important thing is -- he didn’t need Grayson.

 

***

 

After doing his research at the library, Damian thinks he has a lead. There are various places in Gotham that might have carousel horses -- wooden gallopers -- _and_ giant tents, but only _one_ of them is abandoned. It used to be _two_ , but a recent news article had announced the re-opening of Amusement Mile for the first time since the quake --

So Damian has one solid lead. Bonus Brothers Carnival and Amusement Park. It’s been out of service for nearly as long as he’s been alive. It _sounds_ like an ideal hiding spot for criminals with a ridiculous circus theme.

After driving over there, he pulls up his cycle and parks just inside the perimeter fence. He ignores the _Condemned KEEP OUT_ sign and strides in confidently. The entire place looks dilapidated and pathetic -- the fence is bent, out of shape, broken, there are some hooked, rusted tent pegs in the ground, but with no tent tied to them -- it’s long since been removed or rotted. And up ahead --

Someone whimpers.

Damian rushes forwards.

Up ahead, a carousel horse. Tied to it is a young woman with -- _something’s_ going on with her face, but Damian can’t tell what.

“Help,” she says, and as she speaks, the flesh on her face doesn’t seem to move how Damian expected it to with the word. It almost seems stiff, like she’s wearing a mask, but he doesn’t see where it ends and her flesh begins.

Damian has no clue what he’s looking at.

“Help,” the young woman says again.

He came here to fight whoever the drug dealers were working for, but this must equally be an important part of Father’s job, mustn’t it?

A tear springs from the corner of her eye. “Huh -- behind you.”

Damian turns around.

He’d been so distracted with the civilian that he let himself get surrounded and --

_What_?

Around him is a veritable _army_ of people with that exact same face as the young woman, the same bright red hair he now assumes are garish red wigs. They're aall dressed in purple dresses and red dress shoes. They start moving towards him as a mass of humanity. Clearly a threat.

Damian raises his hands up and prepares to fight.

As the mob is equally spaced and around him on all sides, any direction he goes will be equally advantageous -- or disadvantageous. He sprints ahead and punches the first one he sees in the gut and they sprawl forward. The two immediately closest both reach towards him, but Damian jumps up, using the back of the sprawled forward… person… as a springboard and kicks each of them in the face, one after the other.

Damian’s never fought so many combatants at once. It would be _easier_ \-- like everything -- if he had his sword. He could cut a swath through the mob, but of course _that’s_ outside the limits --

It just takes one. Just one person grabbing his arm, Damian hooks their hand and tries to apply an armbar, but he’s _slowed_ and the entire mob can engulf him. One hand grabbing him becomes two and then three, three adults larger than he force him to the ground, Damian tries as hard as he can to elbow one of them but his arm is still trapped and he’s just not _strong_ enough to break it free and --

The entire mob starts kicking him.

Damage control. A situation he never wanted to be in. He doesn’t think he’s ever even _trained_ for it, because who would train for losing a fight this badly? Instinctively, he curls into a fetal position, protecting his head and organs as best as he can. He can’t get out, and no one is coming for him -- not Mother, not any League of Shadows lackeys, not _Grayson_. Each consecutive kick just reminds him that he’s going to die alone and it’s not even going to mean anything.

It’s not _fair_.

His head spins from the blows and the world seems a bit off kilter and --

And what is he? A common child? Losing and crying isn’t an option. Damian rotates over on his stomach to prepare to force himself to his feet. He must have something with him -- Mother taught him that there’s no such thing as a no-win scenario --

The belt. Of course. He’d been too resentful at not having his sword that he didn’t focus on what he _did_ have. He reaches a hand to his utility belt --

But it leaves his head undefended. One last, strong kick, a final jolt of pain --

And the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So I wasn't even sure whether to include this chapter or not, because I don't like re-creating moments from the comics without changing much, because I assume at least some of my readers have read the comics and don't want them to be bored. 
> 
> That said.
> 
> The reason I included this was because I feel like we've been leading up to Damian getting frustrated with Dick in his internal monologue. I'm wondering if the reader would feel emotionally cheated if we just... avoided the fallout of that and I was like “Oh yeah to find out what happened just read Batman and Robin #2”. 
> 
> I tried to make it a little un-dull for the people who have read the comic by putting a lot of focus on Damian's internal narration, which we can't see in the comic.
> 
> Other misc notes before I get into the big thing: the comic ends with Damian being beaten unconscious by a crowd of people but wow is it way more brutal when you're in his head and not panning away to the bad guy. I want to give him a hug (but he would stab me).
> 
> Now... for what's changed: for those of you who have read the comic... you may be like “Wait a minute this isn't how the Cirque d'Etrange was done!” And there is a reason for that. CW: Transmisogyny
> 
> That is because the handling of Cirque d'Etrange was just... not good in my opinion. The most notable change here was to “Big Top” (In this fic, the circus strongwoman to keep the circus theme. In the original comic, she was a bearded lady). I feel like even though the comic did not explicitly label her as a trans woman (IIRC bearded ladies are cis women) it was still full of transmisogyny. She's treated as a freak for being outside the gender norm and looking more masculine than a “normal” woman and if you flip to the back of the book, there's character design notes: “Big Top was originally written and drawn more as an obviously feminine 'bearded lady', but it seemed rather ungallant, even for the Damian Wayne Robin, to administer the kind of beating he hands out to a woman, so we made the character more masculine and referred to the character as 'he'.” Yeah. So it's basically “this character is a woman but we want it to be acceptable to unleash a lot of violence on her, so we'll code her as more masculine so it's okay to beat her up”. Which is it's own bag of worms. I just avoided the issue by making her gender not come into question and not using her gender in the violence at all. 
> 
> You may be like “wait isn't it wrong to beat people up anyway? The point is Damian is crossing a line here; it's a flaw!” Which yes. But the transmisogyny in the comic s never interrogated. Her gender non-conformity is instead treated as a reason why the reader should be more comfortable seeing her beat up, which is fucked up. 
> 
> There are some minor changes I made but this authors comment is long enough and the minor changes affect part two more, so I'll just explain them next time I update.


	16. The Runaway Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman tries to track down a runaway Robin.

Dick stares at the Robin patch on the floor.

It’s still right there, where Damian had tossed it, and Dick is just wondering how things could have escalated so quickly. Damian’s gone -- he had tolerated Dick’s presence for a little over a month, most of which was spent healing or training. The instant he was physically capable of holding his own, he dashed off.

Dick walks over and slumps against the wall. He pulls off Batman’s cowl. His domino masks -- Robin’s or Nightwing’s -- never felt like masks, just a way to protect his secret identity while he acted out another aspect of himself. But Batman’s cowl is identity obscuring both on the visual and the psychological level -- he doesn’t feel as if he’s allowed to be Dick Grayson in it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Alfred. When Dick glances up at him, he can see that he has a towel over one arm and is walking up to Dick. “Master Richard,” he says, so Dick already knows they’re one level more serious than usual. “May I ask what happened?”

Dick grimaces. He doesn’t _want_ to summarize it. He doesn’t want to admit he lost Damian. Bruce’s son. How would Dick even explain that to Bruce, if he were here? _You know how you trusted my judgement and abilities to keep things running if worst should come to worst? Well… you were wrong._

“Dick?” Alfred asks again, this time softly. He must _really_ be able to tell something’s bothering Dick; he normally never drops the ‘Master’ in front of people’s names.

Dick rubs his face. He sighs and stares at the ground -- it’s easier than maintaining eye contact when recounting events, and he doesn’t have to see Alfred’s expression of horror as he confesses to everything that happened.

“It was a disaster, Alfred.” Almost accidentally slips into _Alfie_ , his childhood nickname for Alfred, now that they’ve dispensed of the formalities. “I -- I think I lost Damian.”

In the corner of his vision, Alfred stoops down and picks up the Robin insignia. “Tell me what happened,” he says.

 

***

 

“-- ‘That’s an order!’” Dick finishes summarizing. “I sounded so _fake_ , like a kid trying to do Batman’s voice. Where is he, Alfred? I need to straighten this out now.”

Alfred frowns and gestures at the empty bunker behind them. “I thought Master Damian was here in the bunker with _you_ , Master Dick. I came to alert you both to the arrival of the quad-bat test drive, courtesy of Mr. Fox’s R and D division.”

Dick sighs and stands up. “I was never this much of a brat when I was Robin, was I?” he asks, even though he feels like he already knows the answer -- after all, he _did_ run away. Twice. Once after being fired, again after Batman kept treating him like a sidekick, not an equal --

Damn it. That’s what’s missing, isn’t it? How could Dick have been so _stupid_?

“Of course not,” Alfred says, contradicting Dick’s thoughts. “You had loving parents who were role models of the highest caliber. But Damian -- you do have to keep in mind that Damian was raised by assassins.”

Dick rubs his head. “Yeah, I know,” he says. Assassins who told Damian he was going to be the next king assassin.

_It seems logical that you need my skills if you’re to triumph in my father’s absence._

_You people need_ me _!_

_Do you know how many people -- or even nations -- would pay a fortune to have an Al Ghul working with them?_

Of course he was never going to acquiesce to being the Boy Wonder. The only arrangement that would be palatable for him would be the one that _all_ the Robins wanted, that Bruce was always reluctant to give for more than a few weeks after a fight. Complete equality. Not Batman and his teen sidekick Robin, but Batman and Robin, partners.

The only question is if Dick can do it. He believes Damian’s competent, there was never any doubt about that. But Damian has _terrible_ judgement and a vicious streak a mile wide. Dick can’t just _let_ him hurt people. That wouldn’t be helping reform Damian, it’d just be turning Dick into a villain.

“He came to Gotham because those brief moments of contact with Master Bruce showed him a better way to live,” Alfred continues.

Dick shakes his head, because he’s not entirely sure. He remembers when Damian got there. He seemed… pained, thinking about his mother. He couldn’t be with her right now, he’d said. And after the brief glimpses he’s had of Damian’s horrific childhood, Dick is wondering if it wasn’t some survival instinct Damian wasn’t even aware he had kicking in.

“He clearly thought very highly of him. Attempting to take his father’s place won’t work, Master Dick,” Alfred says.

Like Dick wasn’t aware of that. He _never_ wanted to replace Bruce. But… Dick isn’t really convinced Damian idolized Bruce as much as Alfred says he did. Before they made that letter, Damian seemed sure that Bruce hated him.

And Dick is suddenly wishing they _hadn’t_ made it, that he’d just taken Damian aside and told him the truth. _Your dad loved you and he was very sad for you but sometimes_ _\--_

Dick squeezes his eyes shut. It’s painful to think with Bruce not even around to defend himself. Same reason he didn’t want Barbara going over all of Bruce’s messed-up plans. It just seems wrong to speak ill of the dead.

But if he was going to tell Damian the truth, it would have finished with -- _but sometimes, often, he alienated his friends and family and that’s not your fault. He was just a human being and he made mistakes and you can’t blame yourself for those mistakes. Now please come_ home _._

Dick rubs his face. He hadn’t even realized he was crying a little.

Alfred puts his hand on Dick’s shoulder.

“If we don’t save him, who will?” Dick asks. He could go over the reasons he doesn’t get along with Damian -- the know-it-all supervillain sneer, the snide, aristocratic judgement of everything around him as not good enough -- but the truth is, he and Alfred are the only people Damian has. The kid left his mother, his grandfather’s League of Shadows counted him as an enemy, his father was dead. If they don’t deal with it and step up, no one will.

Dick detaches the cowl from the back of the cape and stares at it in his hands. It’d be easy -- temptingly easy -- to put the suit back into the case and finish this as _Nightwing_. On the off chance Alfred is right about Damian being offended that Dick is replacing Bruce, it could be seen as a peace offering. And he _really, really_ has no clue how to maintain Batman's authority like he's supposed to without alienating Damian further.

“Master Dick?” Alfred asks.

Dick shakes his head. “It’s not _just_ Damian,” he says. “It’s Gordon, it’s the cops. I spent years earning respect as _Nightwing_ and now they’re just looking at me like one more psycho Batman impersonator!”

Dick wants Alfred to agree with him. He wants to hear him say _You’re right, this was a terrible idea_. But infuriatingly, Alfred won’t. He doesn’t say anything at all.

“And I’m _way_ off balance,” Dick adds. “There’s the cape -- I hate the cape. It was the first thing I ditched when I got out on my own, and you’d know _why_ if you saw our sparring match today -- ”

Alfred gently takes the cowl from Dick’s hands. Dick wants to think _finally_ , but Alfred doesn’t look like he’s about to tell Dick he doesn’t need to worry about it. Instead, his mouth is pulled down in a slight frown and his eyebrows are knitted together just a little and Dick is wondering if it’s the closest Alfred will let himself come to to being sad when he’s taking care of other people.

God, he’s been such an ass. Ranting about how hard it was to replace Bruce -- who Alfred had raised since he was _eight years old_ \-- right to his face. The thing Alfred had told him earlier -- it wasn’t fair, it wasn't right, for him to have to bury Bruce. No wonder Alfred was assuming Damian’s turnaround was due to Bruce’s influence. Doesn’t every kid who dies young get idolized in their parents’ eyes? -- and Bruce was effectively Alfred’s son for thirty-four years.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says. “You don’t need to hear this. I’m just going through my own dark half hour of the soul.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s all you have time for,” Alfred says, and whatever expression he had earlier is vanished like smoke. “As I see it, your parents were in the show business, Master Dick. Those are _your_ roots. Try not to think of it as a _memorial_ , but a _performance_.”

Dick smiles slightly. He wants to tell Alfred that the pep talk’s not necessary, that Alfred’s allowed to mourn himself if he wants, and doesn’t always have to try to make everyone else feel better, but the truth is, it is helping.

Alfred holds up the cowl and speaks almost to _it_ , not to him. “Think of Batman as a great role, like Hamlet, or Willie Loman or… even James Bond. And play it to suit your strengths.”

Dick takes the cowl. Playing it to his strengths. He can do that. And that would involve, as painful as it is to admit, not repeating Bruce’s mistakes with Robin. The same way he’d done it with Ravager when they teamed up over a year ago. _I’m sorry, that was a Batman answer_. Don’t give Batman answers. Give _Dick Grayson_ answers.

“Don’t let me ever forget the golden rule, Alfie,” Dick says, and now he _does_ slip into the old habit. He puts the cowl on. “The show must go on.”

“Break a leg, Master Dick,” Alfred says with a smile, “As they say in the trade.”

And Dick realizes that Alfred was a performer, too.

 

***

 

Whoever the Cirque d’Etrange was working for, they weren’t scary enough to have intimidated their employees into silence. Dick knows that from _Damian’s_ aborted interrogation -- which he still doesn’t regret interrupting -- Damian had said he’d almost gotten the information out of the suspect. Though that could have been a mere justification of his actions.

So… hypothetically, Dick could go back and try what he tried with _Toad_ the other night without getting anywhere. Interrogating one of the suspects with the fear of falling.

But there are always potential downsides to that plan, the chief of them being Dick doesn’t feel like he has much _time_. The quickest way to find intel is the way that everyone in the family was _too_ reliant on, according to Bruce. Just ask Barbara.

Dick taps the comm in the cowl to complete the call.

“Oracle,” Dick says. He never makes it a habit to use real names over comms, no matter how much Babs assures him that they’re in a closed link. “I need your help.”

“I’m shocked,” Barbara says, not sounding shocked at all. Dick can’t tell if there’s a slight smile in her voice to take the edge off, but right _now_ the comment isn’t welcome. He grunts.

“Robin’s, uh, AWOL,” Dick says, because AWOL sounds a lot less worrying than ‘he ran away’. More like a soldier who can take care of himself than a ten-year-old child. “I need you to help me find him.”

“I don’t suppose it’s too much to hope he took his phone on patrol?”

“No,” Dick says, shaking his head, even though she can’t see him. “That’s like, rule number one of patrol. I was hoping you could use our street cams or any other cameras in Gotham and tell me if he’s okay.”

“‘If he’s okay’?” Babs asks back. “Or where he is? Which do you want?”

Dick grimaces and can’t answer. He knows that if he wants to start treating Damian as a partner, tracking him all the way across the city would _not_ send that message. But he also has to _find_ the kid somehow so they can get things on straight. And there's still the attack on Gotham to deal with --

 _Bombs_ seems the most likely. That's what his brain had leapt to, and the Cirque d’Etrange had used explosive devices to try to break their friend out of prison -- or to break _into_ prison to kill their friend. Neither he nor Gordon had found out how Toad died yet. But Dick’s having such a hard time thinking of how an attack on Gotham would even be beneficial for a bunch of circus-themed drug dealers. _One_ of the plans has got to be a red herring, but he hasn’t figured out which one yet.

“Any bomb threats called in tonight?” he asks Oracle. He’s pacing antsily, half tempted to just jump out on the new quad-bat to combine his test drive with a frantic search for anything -- Damian, the threat… either a problem to solve or a person to help. Sitting around and just thinking on how much you’re _not_ getting it sucks.

“Robin or bomb threats, Batman?” Oracle asks. “Which do you want me to focus on?”

“Uh…” _Damn it_ how does he even choose? “What happened to your brain's multiple microprocessors?” But as he’s saying it, Dick hops up to the computer in the Batbunker. He can check for bomb threats himself. He’s not technologically illiterate, it just becomes easy to ask Oracle to solve things.

… Maybe Bruce had a point about them being too reliant on her.

“Find Robin,” Dick says, as he logs onto the Batbunker computer.

Silence on Barbara’s end as she gets to work. Dick does the same. But before he can even check any communications, there’s a little _ping_ in the corner of the screen, letting him know that a test they were running was done.

The residue from case of dominoes they got the other night. A common cold virus. A deeper analysis suggests it’s _not_ the common cold, just something that mimics it -- it seems to have something that targets the nucleus accumbens of the brain --

Shit.

Dick runs up to the quadcycle. “Oracle, cancel that search for Robin,” he says.

“Are you sure?”

Dick grimaces. This isn’t a position he ever wanted to find himself in. Choosing between the ten-year-old he has a responsibility to and potential innocent civilians in Gotham. But Damian, as he’s insisted multiple times at high volume, can take care of himself. So Dick says, “Yes. I need to know any densely populated places this late at night. Wherever you’d have access to a _lot_ of civilians.”

“Gotham is the city that never sleeps,” Oracle says. “I’m pulling up our street cams and civilian contractor security cameras from likely areas. Am I still looking for a bomb?”

“Worse,” Dick says, because he still remembers how fucking impossible it was to quarantine the Clench -- the apocalyptic plague unleashed by the Order of St Dumas. Finding a bomb seems like it’d be child’s play in comparison. “Germs.”

“Right. Most of the street cams in Old Gotham have been destroyed by vandals. I’m sending Batgirl on patrol there.”

Dick breathes a sigh of relief. If Cass is off her sabbatical, this will be _much_ easier.

“Got any specific locales for me?” Dick asks.

“The reservoir and water district tunnels are fairly vacant, which is where _I_ would unleash _my_ plague if I were a supervillain -- ”

“Thank God you’re not,” Dick says. Despite the stressful situation around him, falling back into old, bantery habits is inevitable.

“Yeah, you’d be screwed,” Babs says. Then her voice becomes serious all of a sudden. “One Gotham Center. A couple blocks away. Get there ASAP, Dark Knight Wonder.”

Dick guns the quadcycle. “Fast work on your part.”

“Yes, because you were wrong. There’s someone approaching with a bomb around their waist.”

Dick frowns. That doesn’t make any sense. Unless it’s yet _another_ megalomaniac attacking Gotham. But _someone_ has to deal with it, and he’s sure he’s the closest.

The quadcycle handles like a dream as Dick weaves around the corners and through the traffic of Gotham at night. Dick’s _there_ in under two minutes and he immediately sees what Barbara was talking about -- a red-headed person in a dress with a bomb strapped to their chest.

Dick acts quickly. He stop the quadcycle as quickly as humanly possible. Then he jumps at the aggressor before they can reach for the detonator, kicks them against the wall, and yanks the vest off in one movement.

He opens it, but it’s empty. They’re not carrying bombs, they’re carrying --

 _Germs_. He was right. The aggressor steps towards him and sneezes. Dick pulls his cape up and blocks it in what he’s _pretty_ sure is overkill, but better safe than sorry when dealing with a virus that attacks your brain.

“Stay back!” Dick yells to the civilians in the area, because he really doesn’t want to start a pandemic. Which isn’t really an issue anyway -- some of them have already fled and the others are huddled in a corner, away from him. Dick punches the person who had the fake bomb, knocking them to the ground. He leaves a foot on their chest, pinning them down, as he scans for more threats.

 _One in a nearby food joint_. And they look -- _exactly_ the same as the person he’s pinned to the ground. Dick does a quick double take to confirm, wraps a rope around the incapacitated enemy and says says “Stay down!” The incapacitated enemy doesn’t try to struggle out of the rope. They don’t do anything.

… Again, _weird_. But he can dwell on the weirdness once he’s done dispatching the other one.

“GCPD is already aware of the threat,” Oracle says. “And bringing in someone to quarantine.”

“Thanks,” Dick says, as he leaps forward, through the glass window and into the restaurant and tackles the other aggressor. One advantage everyone had when Oracle was on the team was that she’s removed from the situation, so she’s _necessarily_ thinking of the big picture. Not just “how do I kick this guy’s ass?” but “what do I do with him once his ass is kicked?”

Dick grabs the second person he incapacitated and carries them over to the first, keeping them together. Side by side, it’s obvious that even the _clothes_ are identical. And none of them are saying anything to him, but they’re not even communicating non-verbally like Cassandra used to, before she learned how to talk. They aren’t looking at each other or him, they aren’t scanning for threats, not wiggling or trying to escape … it’s disconcerting. Either they’re faking him really well, or they’re in a bad spot -- the third and lesser known _f_ to the fight or flight. Fight or flight or freeze. If you just don’t move or react and wait for whatever’s happening to be over.

Dick pulls out his gas-mask, just in case, and leans in closer. Upon closer inspection, something _weird_ is going on with their faces. He reaches a hand out to touch one and they _finally_ react, shrinking away in pain.

Dick holds his hand out, open palmed, and draws it back so they can see he doesn’t mean any harm. Then he stands up and steps back. He doesn’t think he’s going to get any intel out of these two. If he tries to scare someone who’s already checked-out due to… whatever this is that he hasn’t discovered yet… they’re just going to check out even further.

If he had time, he’d do that thing Bruce sometimes does when he’s comforting a traumatized kid -- even though these guys aren’t _kids_ , something’s clearly up. But Dick has his own fires to put out right now. He’s dealt with the immediate threat; now he has to make sure Damian’s alive.

“Can you restart the search for Robin?” he asks Barbara over comms.

“I already did. I followed the motorcycle from where he left the Batbunker on the cameras. He broke into a library, then went outside the city limits to the south. I lost track of him.” She speaks quickly, efficiently, as Oracle, but then her voice softens a bit and she adds, “I’m sorry.”

“You already helped a lot,” Dick says. He sighs. Until he knows where to go to find Damian, he might as well keep a close eye on these two -- or decontaminate his suit, so _he’s_ not the one spreading the plague in Gotham.

Hmm. Damn.

Okay. Right. Keep an eye on everything he touches. So far these two, the glass window he jumped through, and the quadcycle. But in the meanwhile, he has to find Damian.

He was obviously on a mission. The kid didn’t break into a library in the middle of the night for _fun_. The only question is whether he’s still on the same mission Dick is. He wasn’t there when Dick got the intel about the virus, he only knows what he beat out of the suspect.

What did he get? Wooden gallopers -- carousel horses, obviously -- the suspect’s weapons -- Dick could recognize the tent pegs used to hoist up circus tents anywhere, and the south of the city --

Dick feels his stomach drop.

Seems like Damian might make a decent detective yet, as long as something forces him to use his _brain_ and not the immediately easier option of his fists. Because Dick can think of something outside the south of Gotham that has everything he just described _and_ is abandoned enough to make a good base for a gang of criminals. Bonus Brother's Carnival and Amusement Park. The same place Gordon got kidnapped eight years ago. The same place Babs got _shot_ when she was rescuing him.

Sirens in the distance. Please be coming _here_ , to deal with these two, Dick thinks, because he doesn’t want to leave a situation that might lead to an epidemic unsupervised, but he also needs to go find Damian. He’s been gone less than two hours, but if he’s actually tracked down whoever’s behind this, the kid might need backup. And Dick knows it doesn’t take any time at all for things to go south. Half of the family is proof of that.

A cop car pulls up, and Dick asks if they’re here because of the threat to Gotham. Once he gets a yes, he explains that he thinks the only threat the attackers possess right now is germs, so the cops shouldn’t you know, shoot them. If they’re scared they should just wait for medical personnel. He gets a side-eye, like _how dare you try to tell me how to do my job_ , but in a town where the cops are as crooked as they are in Gotham, that’s kind of necessary.

“Tell Commissioner Gordon I’m investigating Bonus Brother’s Carnival and Amusement Park,” he adds. It still feels weird to do Batman’s voice, but he’s getting the hang of it. “I think that’s where this all started.”

The cops look at each other inquisitively, and Dick rushes to his quadcycle and drives off.

 

 

***

Damian is fighting when Dick gets to the amusement park. Good. It means he’s alive. Alive and fighting some guy with a pig mask on, then the pig guy swings a metal pipe at Damian’s head, Damian doesn’t dodge fast enough. Damian falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Dick guns the quadcycle as the pig guy raises the pipe up, ready to smash Damian’s face in. Dick knocks the pipe out of his hands as he drives past.

The guy runs off, Dick parks the cycle. On one side of him, Damian is already sitting up and rubbing his head.

_He’s okay, then. The mission first._

Dick straight up charges pig guy and knocks him into the wall of a funhouse mirror. He doesn’t say anything -- he learned that from watching Bruce enough that the silent enemy is the scariest. He just approaches him slowly. As he does, he sees that the man is shirtless and burned, which he’s guessing is Damian’s handiwork.

The man hunches over and grabs both sides of his pig mask. He seems terrified of Dick, and honestly Dick’s fine with that. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong!” he whimpers. “I swear I didn’t mean it -- ”

Dick takes another step forwards. Damian’s already recovered and ran up besides him.

“I didn’t -- ” The man then stops and bursts into a wail. Dick steps forward ever so slightly, preparing to sidekick and Damian reads his body language and follows his lead. They each kick him simultaneously, knocking him unconscious.

Footsteps in the background. More people who look exactly like the ones Dick arrested at Gotham Square. Dressed the same. Some of them are holding sticks or quarterstaffs as weapons.

“Don’t let them surround you,” Damian says, and immediately leaps off to deal with the enemies on his side of the trouble bubble. He grabs one person by the shoulders and uses them to hold himself up while he kicks another in the face. Whatever happened, he’s obviously in fighting condition now.

Dick decides to not give an already capricious Damian a lecture and just starts on _his_ side of the fight. “You went into battle without doing your research!” he says. Someone comes in at him with a weapon and he kicks straight through the stick, breaking it in half. “Otherwise -- good work!”

Damian hops over an enemy’s head and launches off their shoulders, sending them sprawling Dick’s direction. Dick takes the invitation and punches them in the face.

Working together, it doesn’t take long to incapacitate the rest of the people. “The strongwoman’s choice of weapons lead you here, right?” Dick asks, as he wrestles the last one to the ground. “So where’s the lair?” Thinking of the guy Damian was fighting earlier, he says, “Or should I say pig pen?”

“It’s there,” Damian says, gesturing in front of him. A fire. A train ride in the fair. “Where the ghost train is burning. What are you _doing_ here, anyway?”

“Partners, remember?” Dick asks. He’s hoping that’s enough -- he’ll give Damian the full explanation later, but he doesn’t want to do it in front of a bunch of supervillains. “Batman and Robin.”

Damian finally fully _looks_ at Dick, instead of just glancing at him to make sure they’re coordinating in combat. There’s a slight swelling around his forehead, like he got hit there, and it’s hard to tell under the domino mask, but there’s a wrinkle in his forehead, like his browline is knitted in worry. “There was a girl,” he says. “Did -- did you just save my life?”

If Damian was a normal kid and Dick was a normal adult, Dick would say, “Of course I did, and I always will,” and pick him up and wrap him in a hug. But Damian’s not a normal kid, and Dick’s pretty sure he’d take offense at that gesture, and even if he wouldn’t, Dick is still covered in germs. So he just nods vaguely.

“One of us has to watch him,” Dick says, jerking his head at the guy in the pig mask. “The other has to find the girl and recover what he can from the lair.”

Damian cracks his knuckles. “I’ll handle Pig,” he says. Dick has no clue if that’s genuinely his name or a nickname Damian gave him. “Find the civilian. A girl. She was captured … by Pig.”

Dick nods. He’s hoping that Damian’s _handling_ of Pig doesn’t involve what he did earlier, and decides to take a possibly stupid risk of trusting Damian’s judgement here. He should probably be the one to go in the lab, anyway, since he’s already contaminated and has his gas mask on.

Walking here seems… weird. Dick’s barely gotten his bearings from the chaotic night, he still has a thousand questions for Damian, and he infuriatingly knows that he’s just barely starting to put together the pieces of whatever’s going on here. It’d be easy, temptingly easy, to just do what Damian wanted to do earlier and kick the information out of someone. But even if it would work better than using actual detective skills, it would be unnecessarily cruel. And set a terrible example.

The air in the laboratory is already superheated; smoke chokes the air and Dick is glad for his mask. Awkward sculptures of skeletons that Dick hopes are fake are on the walls; clearly whoever this was never bothered taking down the theme park rides when he turned it into a supervillain lair.

There’s got to be _something_ here. A series of vials on the wall, far enough away from the heat that they haven’t exploded yet --

Huh. _That’s_ suspicious. One is clearly labelled “antidote”.

Dick grabs what he can and shoves it in his utility belt, hoping it will protect the vial from the worst of the heat, because he can’t leave yet. Damian said there was a civilian in here -- a civilian he infuriatingly didn’t _describe_ , but really Dick is assuming that if there’s anyone alive, they’ll count.

Even through the gas mask, the air feels like it’s almost scorching his lungs. If there’s anyone alive in here, they won’t be for much longer.

“Hello,” Dick calls out in case someone’s hidden. “I’m here to rescue you,” he says. It comes off as less assuring than usual in his grating Batman voice.

A piece of wood from the ceiling falls to the floor. Sparks fly in Dick’s face. Dick moves a case and checks behind it, but really, he doesn’t expect to see anyone. There’s not enough room for a human being to be hiding here, and with the temperature rising --

Another part of the ceiling falls. Dick leaps out of the way and rolls straight out of the tent.

 _Whack_.

Dick sighs.

Damian was standing over the man with the pig mask, punching him.

 _Do I have to be the_ only _one who learned anything from tonight’s disaster?_

“Robin!” Dick says sharply. “I checked the lab. There was _no one_ there. She must have gotten out.”

Damian takes a step back and says, “He’d better _hope_ so.”

 

***

 

The ride home is quiet by necessity.

They couldn’t talk. Dick and Damian both drove their own vehicles home -- Dick the quad-bat and Damian his motorcycle. Dick had them both thoroughly clean off their suits and decontaminate before they went up to the apartment, just because when you’re dealing with a virus, that’s the smart thing to do. And anyway, he gave the antidote and forensic evidence to the police when they got there. He didn’t keep any for himself, so Gordon could study and distribute it if needed -- not that he _trusted_ anything that was so clearly a trap. He told Gordon as much when he was handing it over.

The sun is almost coming up by time everyone’s showered and gotten a medical check, and now resting on the apartment’s couch. To Dick’s surprise, Damian hasn’t argued or demanded an apology. He seemed content to just follow Dick’s strategy, to act as if nothing happened, even when something obviously did.

The bruises on Damian’s face are giving Dick sympathy-whiplash again. He wants to tell Damian that he shouldn’t injure an enemy who’s already been rendered helpless, but it was clear that whatever happened tonight, Damian took quite a beating himself. Dick’s not equipped to simultaneously discipline and comfort someone, even though Damian’s in clear need of both and unwilling to receive either.

Comforting first, Dick decides, even though he’s going to have to tip-toe around it if he doesn’t want to scare Damian off. “You know,” Dick says slowly, “a couple months into my time as Robin, I ran away too.”

“I didn’t run away,” Damian says. “I solved the case. You’re welcome.”

Dick sighs. Maybe it’s easier if they just pretend nothing happened. If Dick just takes the whole ‘I didn’t run away’ thing at face value…

“ _Why_ did you run away?” Damian asks. He’s not really looking at Dick when he asks the question, he’s looking mostly at his hands in his lap, which are curled into fists. His entire body is tense. “Could you not cut it?”

Dick sighs again. Maybe this topic is a bit too complicated to bring up on the end of an emotional, stressful night. But honestly, Dick’s head feels clearer than it’s been in a bit. Damian being back takes a huge weight off his chest. Even though the kid was only gone for a little bit. He _hated_ having to worry and he _hated_ having to feel like he had to pick between the greater good and the good of the kid in his charge. So he feels like maybe it’s okay to dedicate some energy to the topic, especially if it means Damian will know…

Well if he can get Damian to follow his thought process earlier this evening. _I haven't been in your shoes, but I’ve been Robin. It’s not like I don’t remember how frustrating working with Batman can be._

“ _You_ might say I couldn’t cut it,” Dick says carefully. “You as in you personally, not the general you.”

“ _Tt._ I’m familiar with the subtleties of the English language.” Then he adds, “Why, what happened?”

Dick frowns. He wishes he could find a more positive experience to relate to Damian with. “I got badly injured in the field,” Dick says. “Your father freaked out. He thought the work was too dangerous for a child.”

Damian’s face reddens. He's blushing. Dick doesn't think he's ever seen him do that before. He didn't even know he could.

Is he... embarrassed?

“Maybe he just had the wrong child,” Damian says eventually. Whatever caused the embarrassment isn't addressed.

“Maybe,” Dick says. “But you weren’t even born yet.”

“The wrong _kind_ of child,” Damian adds.

Dick nods. He doesn’t know what kind of child Damian’s talking about -- to the best of his knowledge, Damian considers himself one of a kind. “He fired me,” Dick says. “He wanted me to just stay out of danger. Have a normal life.”

Damian snorts derisively.

“Yeah,” Dick says. “I thought so too.”

Damian looks at Dick out of the corner of his eye, skeptically.

“What?” Dick asks. “You think you’re the only kid allowed to want the vigilante lifestyle? It sucked. I had all this training and experience and I couldn’t use it. I felt like I was being asked to fight as a soldier then sit on the side lines like a kid who needed protection.”

“To be two things at once,” Damian says.

Dick nods hesitantly. That’s not _exactly_ how he’d describe it, but he’s not going to hyper correct Damian if the kid is attempting to relate back to him.

“Why do people ask that of you?” Damian asks.

“I don’t know,” Dick says, even though he’s pretty sure he does, in Damian’s case. In Damian’s case, the kid _was_ two things at once, as evidenced by all of the times he’s given Dick sympathy-whiplash. A ten-year-old boy whose biggest concern should be not missing pizza day in the school cafeteria and an assassin who'd been taught violence is the right solution to most problems -- or, Dick supposes, _ex-_ assassin by now. “People are complicated, I guess,” Dick says. “I’d be really surprised if you could find anyone who was _only_ two things at once. Most of us are more.”

“ _Tt_.”

Dick sighs.

“Don’t ask that of me, Grayson,” Damian says after a moment. “I’m not your sidekick, your distraction, or some damn child you can coddle.”

Dick hadn't thought he was _coddling_ Damian at all. If anything, he was letting him do _way_ more than most kids would. “Who are you?”

“The _rightful_ heir to the mantle of the Bat.”

Dick doesn’t argue verbally. If Damian’s contextualizing his time away from the League of Shadows as being because of Bruce, like Alfred did, Dick’s worried that arguing will just make him want to leave again. “My point is,” Dick says. “I was Robin before you. I know what it was like.”

“And what was it like for you?”

There are a lot of answers he could give, but Dick selects the one most pertinent to the situation. “A lot of pressure.”

Damian clenches his jaw and swallows. “I’m accustomed to pressure, Grayson.” He stands up suddenly. “More than you know.”

“I don’t mean just like… to perform well in the field,” Dick says. “I know this… partnership thing is rocky.”

“It’s only ‘rocky’ if you make it rocky,” Damian says. “It was never confusing…” he trails off.

It was never confusing _when_? Dick wants to ask. His mind could try to fill in the blanks. It wasn’t confusing during his two days with Bruce. It wasn’t confusing with his mother. It wasn't confusing in the League of Shadows.

Dick's about to ask how on Earth any of those things _aren't_ confusing in any of those circumstances.

Damian shakes his head. “Just tell me what you want, Grayson.”

It'd be easy to use that as an opportunity to dump his feelings – I _want_ you to follow the rules and actually act like you give a damn about other people – but Dick doesn't. The situation's too precarious. So Dick does something easier. He just decides to keep acting like nothing happened. It's easier and safer that way. “I want to see you at training at six,” he says. Just to reinforce normalcy.

“ _Tt_. I suppose _you_ do need more training,” Damian says, which Dick figures is his way of saying he’ll be there while still satisfying his own ego. And then Damian trods off to his room, making almost no noise at all.

Dick doesn't let himself slump on the couch and just doze off, even though it'd be really easy to just let the television quiet all the thoughts in his head and take his brain off mind altering plagues, mutilated victims who seem to have something wrong with their faces and can't communicate, and an aggravating kid who Dick feels less annoyed by and more sorry for every day. But he does need something. He needs to go... somewhere.

 _Barbara's going to dump you officially if you keep showing up at her doorstep to complain_ , Dick thinks. But it's where he wants to go anyway. He's barely on his feet and...

It's fucking _selfish_ , but he just wants... not someone to tell him he's doing the right thing, Alfred's been doing that without fail, so much that Dick's starting to second-guess himself.

Someone to reality check him. That's what she told him earlier, and Dick needs to be reality checked so bad.

Dick sighs. Before he leaves, he checks around the house. Alfred and Damian are both in the rooms, and the lights are on from under the crack in their doors, so Dick doesn't bother opening them – Damian would just tell Dick to leave, since the kid left to get away from him, and Alfred's probably reading or decompressing or something. Taking advantage of a little bit of alone time before he has to get ready for tomorrow – today, Dick means. So Dick just leaves them too it, turns off the lights, locks the door behind him, and hopes he did everything right tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so. This is probably the last straight up re-write I include in this fic. I felt like we needed to have the emotional resolution with Damian's build up to being frustrated here (which we see in the fic) and his running away (which happened in canon), but the entire time I kept worrying I was just going through the motions of the plot parts (not the character interaction parts, which I think came across okay). I kept being worried people who read the comic would be bored and people who didn't read it would be confused. So next time we need a supervillain I'm either making my own plot or significantly changing canon details in the rewrite. That way it will be new and exciting for everyone. 
> 
> That said I do hope people at least liked this. And I included some non canon scenes (like the end). 
> 
> Dick technically intimidates dr phosphorus or phosphorus rex or w/e his name was to give him the information on where the baddies are and about teh germ warfare stuff in canon, but I decided to include a more batfam-esque part and hopefully him using his brain, because... I continuously complain on tumblr about the batfam mostly just punching/intimidating information out of people so I figured I might as well change it here. Other changes are Dick's external dialogue to Alfred a bit - because of his internal monologue he's a little softer on Damian, and also I cut some long parts of the dialogue because Dick didn't need as much encouraging here. Dick's internal monologue also spells Pyg as P-I-G because he doesn't know he's called Professor Pig for Pygmalion yet. 
> 
> The instances of running away Dick mentions are Robin: Year One (which he elaborates on in here) and something from a plotline called 321 days in nightwing solo series. 
> 
> Okay last note: You may be like "The reference to Babs's paralysis didn't happen that way in canon" but a) I hope it's obvious I'm totally fine taking canon and substituting my own by now :P and b) one of my in-the-works fics *is* a killing joke re-write, but if Barbara was treated with the same agency as male characters (and not paralyzed to make a male character sad)


	17. Familial Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a stressful night for the Batguys, Barbara trains with Stephanie and speaks with her father. Dick pays her a visit to be conflicted about something but she's not having it.

Stephanie finishes up her patrol in Old Gotham before she meets Barbara back at the Batcave.

Barbara has accepted that Stephanie isn't going anywhere. She had made one, last-ditch effort to talk her out of it, but it hadn't worked. She hadn't even put her entire heart into it. How could she, if she was half convinced Cassandra and Stephanie were right, anyway?

So... that meant some changes in her life. A new Batgirl. New protege. New mission. Just what the doctor ordered, to be honest. Something to keep her mind off of the problems that lead to her disbanding the Birds. Not being good enough and making stupid mistakes. Feeling helpless. Everything else.

Stephanie trained with _her_ tonight, because Cassandra is out on “ _secret_.” She hasn't told Barbara what she's doing yet, but Barbara's wondering how stupid Cassandra thinks she is if she assumed Barbara hasn't investigated yet. She owns a computer. She can read the news.

But honestly, sparring Stephanie is a nice break. Sparring someone outside of Cassandra's skillset – outside of _God-tier martial artist –_ is doing Barbara some good. Letting her remember what she's capable of. Even if part of her advice is to remind Stephanie to take advantage of what she's _not_ capable of.

“Stop fighting me on my terms,” Barbara says to Stephanie, who she's got wrapped in an arm bar. “You have less training than a lot of people you'll fight. _Never_ fight them on their terms.”

She shoves Stephanie back, and Stephanie rubs her arm a bit. “I didn't fight Scarecrow on his terms,” she says.

Barbara would argue she _did_. Stephanie was poisoned, hallucinating, and beating up a an enemy she was clearly imagining as an avatar for all of her issues. She pulled through brilliantly in the end, though.

Stephanie leaps at Barbara with a kick. Barbara holds her weapons out and relaxes her body, prepared to roll back with the kick, and when the two of them collide, Stephanie knocks Barbara on her back. Which suits Barbara fine. She didn't let go of Stephanie's foot. She just immediately flips herself over, shoves one of Stephanie's legs behind the other's knee, and braces Stephanie's other leg against her escrima, and leans forward, knee-barring her.

“Ow!” Stephanie taps three times on the ground, making Barbara release her.

Barbara pushes hard against the ground, flipping herself up. She's still strapped into her chair – she wears a seatbelt on most occasions, to protect against accidentally losing it in situations just like this. “Still on my terms,” she says. “Don't tip-toe around the issue. What advantage do you have that I don't?”

“Uh... walking?”

“So use it!”

Stephanie gestures down at her own legs. “I _am_ walking!”

Barbara sighs. “ _Mobility_ , Stephanie. Do you think when I spar Dick, he just charges at me a bunch? Crossing the distance between us just puts us on even footing. If you're more mobile than your opponent, _use_ it.”

Stephanie frowns slightly. “That doesn't seem fair.”

Barbara narrows her eyes. She knows Stephanie's trying to be good-spirited, but she'd really rather people treat her like any other opponent in sparring. She doesn't want a pity-win. When she wins, it _means_ something. And besides --

“I'm not training you to fight _fair_ , Stephanie. I'm training you to _win_.”

Stephanie nods and raises her hands again, ready for the next sparring match. She's waiting. Good.

Barbara tests Stephanie's patience – she doesn't come in immediately. Approaching from this position is always disadvantageous, anyway. She prefers to lure her targets inside her guard, but that won't work if she specifically told them it was a stupid idea not one minute before.

She presses the heels of her palms against her tires, pushing her forward slightly. Stephanie reacts accordingly and backs up.

Barbara repeats the move, then pushes off harder and raises her escrimas as she rolls. It's a bad, telegraphed move. Depending on how Stephanie reacts, she'll be able to change direction and attack her from behind – or not.

Stephanie jumps out of the way, and Barbara shifts her weight and presses backwards on one wheel, preparing to spin around, but as she's jumping, Stephanie kicks her in the back, sending her toppling forward.

Barbara lands hard on the floor.

“Oh my God, I'm sorry --!” Stephanie starts.

Barbara shakes her head and smiles. “Don't be,” she says. “You're learning.” She shoves herself up again.

Stephanie returns her grin. She hops on her feet a little, clearly excited for the next part of the match.

Barbara leans forward in her chair, preparing to move. Stephanie keeps bouncing, keeps light on her feet, and Barbara counts the one, two, one, two, of her up and down rhythm. Her feet just touch the ground, as she shoves off Barbara throws an escrima like a dart at the center of her body. She's in the air and can't change direction as fast, it hits with a _whuck_ to her solar plexus.

Stephanie crumples.

Barbara wheels over and offers her a hand up. “Low blow,” Stephanie says between deep breaths.

“It's a lesson,” Barbara says. “Want another one?”

Another smile. “You know I do.”

 

***

 

“So,” Stephanie asks after sparring, after she's showered and changed back into her civilian clothing. “When do I get to meet the new Batman and Robin? I know it's not Tim anymore. He's on one of those manly 'I have to do this on my own, fuck everyone else' things. Also, he can't be Robin, because the new Robin is like... four feet tall.”

Barbara has no idea what Stephanie's talking about. Well, she does. She knows Tim is investigating Bruce's alleged death. But she has no clue why Stephanie assumes he's saying fuck everyone else, unless there's something she missed. But she is _so_ not equipped to deal with just-out-of-high-school relationship problems, and she knows Tim and Stephanie _did_ have those problems, so she just says, “Four foot six.”

“Huh?”

“The new Robin is four feet, six inches tall,” Barbara says. “And with any luck, you won't meet.”

“Why's that lucky?”

Because Barbara's only interacted Damian for a little bit, but she's already sure she's seen enough of him to know he and Stephanie won't get along. But she just asks, “What brings this up, anyway?”

Stephanie shrugs. “It might be nice...” she trails off, clearly not intent on finishing that.

“I'll talk to Batman,” Barbara says, even though she knows she won't. Not about Stephanie, at least. Dick obviously still had his own unresolved issues about her, even if the two of them promised they'd trust each other on choice of proteges. Which isn't really fair, considering at least Stephanie's a legal adult who's never killed anyone before.

“Now get home,” Barbara says, “Before you blow your secret identity.”

Stephanie grins again and dashes off. A woman on a mission. Barbara wonders if she's going to have to tell her to take it slow. Like she did for Cass. Even if Cass never listened. Even if it's not quite something _Barbara_ always has the hang of herself.

Hmm. Dispensing self-care advice is much easier than taking it.

Barbara starts mentally going over the lesson plan for today on the way home. She has a quick coffee date with Dad, then she's going to catch about two hours of sleep before she starts. Her schedule got thrown off when she started working her civilian job, and honestly, if she had to give it her _all_ she'd probably not be equipped for it. It's not the most intellectually stimulating job. Assistant professor of a third-rate university at the Murder Capital of the World. That's how Wendy described it.

...

That assessment was not entirely inaccurate.

Honestly, Barbara can't think of many of the superheroes she knows who have desirable jobs. Oftentimes, it just seems like they're a way to pay the bills or maintain a secret identity. All of Dick's jobs – except for his brief time as a cop – fit that description. For most of the time she knew her, Dinah didn't even _have_ a job – Barbara paid her a salary, like she pays all of her operatives.

Barbara honestly doesn't need the job at Gotham U to pay her bills. She has some funds – some from back when she was using Blockbuster's or other criminals' online accounts as piggy banks, some from Bruce, some from the legitimate business she made as a cover when the Birds were in Platinum Flats.

The real purpose of the job is keeping an eye on Stephanie and Wendy and getting out of the house. Getting out of her rut.

She parks and gets up to her apartment, where Dad is waiting outside. He looks... tired. He just got off an all night shift, just like she did. Barbara grabs her keys and starts unlocking the door.

“You were out?” Dad asks.

Barbara nods. She enters her apartment and Dad comes in right after her and locks the door behind them. Barbara nudges him to the side so she can re-enter her security codes.

“How was work?” Barbara asks.

A long, heavy sigh on Dad's part.

“That bad?”

“It's always bad, Babs.”

Barbara nods. She doesn't think Dad _hates_ his job, at least she hopes he doesn't. But she also wishes he hadn't gone back to work after his injury. He's given twenty years of his life to this city. He _deserves_ to rest.

Barbara starts the coffee. On the kitchen table is an empty box of frozen waffles – Cassandra's work, Barbara's guessing. Cassandra comes and goes as she pleases and isn't really too picky about sneaking in to have a snack, and it is Barbara's fault for giving her a key and telling her to come in whenever, anyway.

“I heard you got a new job,” Dad says. Avoiding talking about the work. That's fine. She already knows what happened from assisting Dick. “Professor or something...?”  
Barbara snickers. “ _Assistant_ professor,” she says. “Of computer science.”

“How's it going?”

Barbara shrugs. “A little dull, to be honest.”

“Does this mean you're quitting... your other thing?”

Barbara shakes her head. _Your other thing_. Even though Dad knew she was Oracle and she used to be Batgirl, he still refers to the vigilantism vaguely, probably out of habit. The Commissioner can't be seen knowing any secrets about Gotham's vigilantes. It'd turn his plausible deniability into a clear willingness to turn a blind eye to things that are technically crimes.

“I'm not quitting,” Barbara says. “I just need something to do during the day. And besides, this apartment isn't going to pay for itself,” she adds, because even though he already knows about Oracle, she's not going to let him in on the riskiness that is stealing from bad guys. She's sure he'd disapprove, anyway.

Dad nods and pulls out a chair to sit down. It wobbles slightly as he does.

Barbara will confess, the table isn't the nicest. Neither is the apartment. It was utilitarian in function. Her life didn't exist in the confines of her apartment building, her commute is longer than the distance from her bed to her computer now. Having to blow up the Clocktower taught her the dangers of putting all of her eggs in one basket. And it seems like there's no need to make her home nice if it's just her. She doesn't care if the table is wobbly or the paint is peeling, she'd only really get something fancy if someone was living with her.

Dad takes off his glasses and cleans them. He's still slumped at the table. Something's clearly bothering him. Barbara wants to prod it out of him, but...

Well, he normally likes a clear delineation between work and home. So she lets him bring it up, if he wants to.

“Barbara, you know I don't... I don't like to ask questions about this,” Dad says. “As far as I'm concerned, the less I know the better.”

Barbara nods. Definitely vigilante work, then.

“So I'm not going to ask questions.” Dad puts his glasses back on. “But I need – I would _like_ you to do me a favor.”

Barbara nods again.

Another heavy sigh on Dad's part. “I don't know or want to know what's going on with the new Batman and Robin, as long as they're here to help.”

“They are,” Barbara says quickly. She remembers how shaken Dad's trust in Batman was when Jean-Paul had the cowl. She doesn't want that to happen again.

She also needs to tell Dick that his disguise doesn't work as well as he thought it did – though, she supposes, if anyone outside 'the family' was going to spot Batman changed, it was Dad. They've been friends for as long as Bruce was in Gotham.

“But Batman needs to get Robin under control. The kid was using excessive force during an interrogation tonight.”

Barbara sighs. She's guessing Dad genuinely didn't have time to tell Dick this – he normally doesn't air whatever problems he has with Batman with her – or he was too unsure how the message would be received by the new Batman.

“I'll pass on the message,” Barbara says.

Dad starts shaking his head almost immediately. “I'm not asking you to be my _secretary_ , Babs.. I just... ”

“What's the favor then?” Barbara asks.

Dad rubs his head. “ _Assurance_ , I guess. That you at least trust these people's judgment. That there's not something here I need to stop.”

“I trust Batman's judgment,” Barbara says. “Robin is... rough around the edges.”

Dad nods. “Yeah, you're telling me,” he says. “I guess that's to be expected with... with a kid in the field.”

His voice gets quieter at the end. Barbara's not surprised. She'd be surprised if anyone except a vigilante was okay taking ten-year-olds into the field. It wasn't even something she approved of herself. Just because she _saw_ Tim do good work as a kid doesn't mean it needed repeating.

“You can rest assured that at least Batman's not – that he's doing everything he can,” Barbara says. She has to change her line halfway through, because _At least Batman's not going to let Robin kill anyone_ would raise a hundred more questions. Like _Wait, what? I wasn't even worried about that in the first place,_ should _I be now?! Why would a ten-year-old kill someone?!_

Dad exhales and sits up a little straighter. “Sorry for dumping this on you, Babs,” he says. “It's not... it's not something I ever wanted to do. It's what happened tonight – ”

“I heard,” Barbara says. About Dad having to go to the same place he was captured and she was injured, and --

She remembers staring up at the ceiling, thinking _this is how you're going to die? What good is Batgirl if she can't even save one person? If she can't even save her father?_

But it doesn't come hard, like a flashback. She doesn't feel like she's there. Though, she supposes, it helps that she barely felt like she was there when it happened. Once they'd gotten Dad out safe, everything became... almost robotic. _Oh, huh, I can't move my legs_ . _Oh, huh, I'm bleeding._ Detached, out of necessity. She thinks Dad was freaking out more than she was at the time.

Barbara squeezes Dad's hand, and he leans forward and kisses the top of her head. It's an instant transportation back to being a kid, back to feeling like all she had to do was tell him what was going on and all of her problems would be solved. But life hasn't worked that way in fourteen years, and even if it could, she wouldn't _want_ it to anymore.

“Here,” Barbara says, to change the topic, “How about _I_ dump on _you,_ and then it will be even.”

Dad smiles slightly.

“So,” Barbara says, and starts pouring her cofee because it's ready now. “My, uh, technically my boss – ”

“The non-assistant professor?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, him. He's explaining everything to me like I don't get it. 'I know it's a lot to take in, come and ask if you have any problems'.”

“Did you tell him you got it?” Dad says.

Barbara chuckles. “I decided against fighting him on it, though I didn't ask for help in the first place. But I don't want to show anyone up.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Dad says. “You _love_ showing people up.”

Well, that's true. But that's in jobs where she's supposed to be all she can be. She doesn't know if that's a luxury Barbara Gordon has when she's Oracle's secret identity. Superman has a nerdy reporter, she has someone who's not very good at programming.

Still, she's not sure how much of the superhero/civilian persona dynamic is familiar with, and doesn't want to clue him in on it in case he uses it to put together the secret identities of everyone else in the family _._

“I'll show him up today,” Barbara says. “When I get in.”

“That's my girl.”

Dad smiles, and they just keep talking. About anything. What's been published in the _Gotham Gazette_ . The newest movie that's out. What Barbara's reading. It's a weight off her shoulders. Just being _normal_. Even though normal has to get to bed very soon.

Dad's put his coat back on and starts to get ready to leave when there's a knock at her door. “You're popular today,” Dad says.

Barbara nods. “I wish I was popular in a couple hours,” she says. “After work and some sleep.”

“I'll tell them to beat it,” Dad says.

Barbara shakes her head. “Let me at least see who it is,” she says, and wheels over to the door with Dad. She peeks through the camera, and on the outside is Dick.

He's tired as hell and every so slightly slouched, though at least he has no visible bruises or injuries. She wants to tell him to scram, but Dad's about to leave and she really figures making him run would just make Dad _more_ suspicious. So she opens up the door to let Dad out.

“Dick?” Dad asks.

Dick yawns and covers his mouth. “Uh, hi, Commissioner,” he says.

“Jim,” Dad says.

“Commissioner Jim.”

“Are you okay?” Dad asks.

Dick holds a thumb up. “Yeah, I'm fine,” he says. “Just tired. I spent all night... partying. Woo.” He gives a lackluster thumbs up.

Dad raises an eyebrow at Barbara.

“He learned from the best,” Barbara says. “Playboys. You know.” She grabs Dick's wrist and drags him in, trying to end the encounter before a sleep deprived Dick can say anything stupid. “Love you, Dad.”

Dad quickly wraps a hug around her shoulders and says, “Love you too, Babs. Get some sleep before work.”

“You too!”

Dad leaves, Barbara re-sets her security system, and Dick wanders in. “In my defense,” Dick says as he's looking around the room, “I didn't know your dad was here.”

“How could you have?” Barbara asks.

Dick shrugs.

He's still looking around, still seeming a little out of it, and Barbara wants to know what happened on his end. She knows the broad _events –_ he lost Robin, found the bad guy – but she doesn't know the specifics.

“How are you?” Barbara asks.

Dick shrugs again, noncommittally. “What did your dad want?”  
“To maintain a healthy familial relationship,” Barbara says. She has no clue how to answer that. But, while Dick's here --

“He also expressed some concerns about Robin,” Barbara adds.

Dick sighs heavily. “Of course he did,” he says. He gestures at the couch and asks, “Can I sit down?”

Barbara nods. Physically, he looks fine, if a bit tired, but getting off his feet will probably do him some good. Especially with what she wants to bring up. “I have similar concerns,” Barbara says.

Dick rubs his face and groans. “I thought we agreed to trust each other when it came to protege choice.”

Which. They did. Though Barbara's getting the idea that the actual effect of the deal was just agreeing not to talk about it. She can still sense Dick's reservation around Stephanie, and everything she learns about Damian makes her trust him _less_ , not _more_ , as Robin.

Barbara sighs. She doesn't push it. Dick obviously came in here for something, and until she figures out, they might as well not start a spat.

 _Or,_ she figures, _he could have just come here to see you_. But he's been so busy lately that interpersonal relationships have been neglected.

... Okay, she's been neglecting them on her end, too. What can she say? Dealing with fires that pop up is comparatively easy to dealing with feelings.

Barbara wheels up behind the couch and leans on the backrest, so her face is right next to Dick's as he's slumped there.

Dick peeks at her, just moving his eyes, not his head. Then, he reaches a hand over and caresses her cheek. “God, I missed you.”

Barbara grabs his hand and gently kisses the inside of his wrist, reciprocating the affection. She keeps holding his hand once she's done.

“What did bring you to my door, though?” She smiles a little and adds, “I know it wasn't the company.”

Dick cringes. “God, I suck,” he says. “Here. We don't have to talk about it. Whatever it was at first, it's the company now.”

Barbara shakes her head, lets go of Dick's hand, and wheels back a pace. She'd actually rather he just owned up to whatever problem he came here with – if he _did_ come here with a problem – so they can put their heads together and solve it. It's better to be _in_ on the problem solving part, rather than just watching as he manically runs around everywhere but assures her everything's cool, like he did in Bludhaven.

“Babs?” Dick asks, turning over on the couch to look at her. He's still leaned against the backrest, but now his chest is against the backrest and his chin is resting on it and his arms are splayed out to the sides.

“Just get it off your chest,” Barbara says. “Whatever it is. There's a problem you came here to solve. You'll feel better once we solve it.”

Dick sighs and sits up a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, that's how you'd call it. That analytical brain thing.”

“Brains are supposed to analyze, Dick. That's what makes them brains.”

“Yeah, well...” Dick deflates and grimaces. “It's about Damian.”

Nothing sexier than your sort-of boyfriend coming to you for advice on what to do with a stabby ten-year-old. But Barbara doesn't _say_ that. She wanted a problem to solve, she's not going to complain about it being said in the wrong way.

“You already know my opinions about Damian,” Barbara says, because she hasn't really been _quiet_ on them.

“Yeah... I mean, no offense, I'm not kicking him out of being Robin.”

Barbara frowns. “I didn't ask you to.”

“I know, I was just nipping that in the bud cuz...” another grimace. “I don't know. I need advice, but not just firing the kid advice. I don't know if I did the right thing tonight.”

“... Isn't this Alfred's area of expertise?” Not like Barbara's _never_ dealt with proteges or kids before, but Cassandra was much older than Damian was when they started working together. Dealing with an almost-adult was much easier than dealing with a kid, even if the overall level of baggage was similar.

“I already talked to Alfred about it,” Dick says. “Sort of, I mean. But he's too nice.”

Barbara cracks a grin. “And you need someone who's _not_ nice?”

“That's not what I meant. I mean, you're nice...”

Barbara shakes her head and gestures him forwards, even though he's on the couch and not moving. “No, I can be mean. Let's go. Tough love.”

“Reality checking,” Dick says. “Or nean.”

“What?”

“Being nice by being mean,” Dick says. “Nean.”

“That's not a real word.”

“You're the librarian. Aren't no words real?”

Barbara rolls her eyes. “That's a massive oversimplification. Get people to use it. Maybe it can be a neologism.” She sighs and re-directs the conversation, as fun as debating the merit of made-up words is. “So what do you want me to be … 'nean' about?”

“You already know... well you already know what Damian did at the police station, I'm guessing?”

Barbara nods. She doesn't know how to feel about it. Being a vigilante moves the acceptable threshold for violence up higher than it is in most people's eyes, but that should make them _more_ careful, not less.

“I chewed him out afterwards -- ”

“Good,” Barbara says.

“ -- Yeah. But that's when he ran away.”

“And you found him now?” Barbara asks. She assumes he has. If he hadn't, he'd probably be still out there looking.

Dick nods. “Yeah. But I just acted like nothing happened when we got back together.”

“Well that's certainly the _easiest_ solution.”

“Is it the best one, though?”

Barbara shrugs. In her experience, when she's messed up, she has to actually get over herself and apologize for there to be any substantial change. Like when Helena found out about the reason behind their first missions. From the perspective of the one who was messing up, if Helena hadn't gone off and waited to be treated with the proper respect, Barbara probably never would've admitted she shouldn't have tried to 'fix' her without her knowing – to use the first missions out as a way to get Helena to wind down and take a different approach to vigilantism.

So she wants to tell Dick to just put his foot down. But she's also a reasonable adult and not ten, so what changed her behavior might not change Damian's.

“It depends on how much tolerance to bullshit you have,” Barbara says.

“I don't _think_ I have a high bullshit tolerance,” Dick says. He frowns. “Do I?”

Another shrug on Barbara's end. “Look,” she says. “You clearly came here wanting a kick in the pants, but I'm not sure I can give you one right now. How about we make a deal? If you start being an asshole or making stupid decisions, I'll kick you then.”

Dick smiles slightly. “You were gonna do that anyway.”

“True. Speaking of which -- ” she wheels over to him and pulls on his wrist. “Get your ass off the couch and brush your teeth. This is a kick in the pants to go to bed, because we _both_ have stuff to do.”

Dick nods, stands up, and rubs his eyes. “I'll head home,” he says.

“If you want. If you don't want, there's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom.” She phrases it like a 'totally-okay-if-you-duck-out' thing, because well, it _is_ . But also that way she doesn't have to say _stay here, I miss you_.

And besides, she wants to be there for more than just the giving him a kick in the pants part. She wants to be there for the fun stuff too.

“... That'd be appreciated, yeah,” Dick says. He trods off to the restroom to brush his teeth.

There's no dad, no proteges around, so now could be the perfect time to ask exactly what _this_ is. What's going on with them, if Dick wants to actually have a talk about it. She's been perfectly content not bringing it up, just due to never having time, due to them both being busy...

But now, they're both _tired_ and really need to get some rest. So she just finishes her nightly routine and gets in bed. Dick crawls in next to her and tentatively touches her shoulder, but then withdraws his hand. Barbara rolls over so she's leaning against him, rests her head against his chest, and lets the sound of his breathing lull her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time Stephanie has actually appeared in my fic (Hi, Stephanie. Sorry Stephanie :P) and its only for one scene. We will see her more in the chapter after the next one, though. 
> 
> I was kind of conflicted on the Barbara and Jim scene because we don't often see Jim talking about Batman stuff to Barbara... but they don't interact a ton anyway (which is kind of weird). He is in the loop of Oracle and seems to trust her judgement in birds of prey, though.
> 
> I can't tell if Babs's reality check (or lack thereof) was too anticlimactic but really Dick is winding himself up about angsting about maybe doing the wrong thing last chapter when he did the right thing, so there wasn't much for him to get reality checked on. Also Barbara doesn't really know Damian anyway so even though Dick wants her advice she can't give it to him. 
> 
> Last note: I cannot tell what it says about me that this is the second chapter these two have interacted in a semi-shippy capacity and both of them had scenes that ended with just going to sleep. Is that my secret wish? The most desirable thing to do is to konk out together?


	18. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian attempts to deal with the emotional fallout of getting captured and failing his mission, and wonders what that means about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> realize i forgot to add this CW in tags: But there definitely should be a content warning for child abuse for... Damian's entire childhood (and we see some scattered scenes from there here, rather than the implications we got earlier)

Damian is eight years old.

He's in a pool, tied to a chair, with only half a lungful of air, as his instructor had tossed him in before he was ready. Part of the lesson. Expect the unexpected. The other part – maintain a clear head and _escape_ before you drown.

Damian is seven years old.

He's in the Black Citadel, sparring wave after wave of Grandfather's Shadows. Each time he defeats one, two more come for him, and he's long since given up on holding back on his blows. He's covered in blood and the heat of summer makes it _stink_ . He doesn't know the purpose of the lesson beyond regular training, only when he collapses on the ground in exhaustion and is taken to the infirmary does he hear that that _was_ the purpose. Sparring continuously with no rest to find your limits. But, Grandfather adds, _you_ are my heir. _You_ are not supposed to have limits.

Damian is ten years old.

He's tied to a chair in front of a very confusing man in a pig mask and his head is throbbing from the beating he took that rendered him unconscious. The man rambles something incoherent and Damian takes advantage of his rambling to start untying the rope that's binding his hands.

Damian is nine years old.

He's in a frozen temple. The assassins beside him have perished due to... _something_ . A lance of pain shoots through his chest and he falls to the ground and he looks for an enemy but there's _none_ and all he can do is hold on --

Ten years old again. The girl who was captured with him yells. _Don't leave me here_ . I won't, Damian says. He turns to the nearest enemies, the strange people dressed in purple dresses and red wigs, and starts _dealing_ with them violently, not letting himself be surrounded again. Letting himself get captured last time was a mistake. There's no such thing as a no-win scenario. He's not supposed to have any limits.

He and the man in the mask tumble out the window, he reaches for the girl but she's still stuck up there. The man in the pig mask burns.

Four years old. On one side of the arena is Mother. On his side, wet grass, the night sky above them, stars twinkling down on him. Between them, a walkway of hot coals. The heat ripples up from them and distorts the image of Mother. Cross the coals, Damian. Walk through the fire.

Ten. He prepares to tell Grayson he's beating information out of Pyg, but that's not the truth, or not the _entire_ truth. The truth is he hates having been captured. He wants to punish the man. He _deserves_ to be punished.

Five. He's fighting a tiger. Six. Mara throws a knife at him while his back is turned, as if he wasn't keeping her in his peripheral vision, as if he couldn't hear the projectile through the air. Seven. Losing a fight against Mother on his birthday. He had sneaked into her room, intending on beating her while she was sleeping, frustrated with not knowing anything, but she had expected it. Eight. Grandfather's sent him out on a mission to render aid to a warlord, to make sure his tactics lessons haven't been in vain. Nine. The unending Year of Blood. Ten. He asks Pyg where the girl is, what he did with her, he doesn't know _why_ he can hear her crying still not to be left there. He pulls back a hand to pummel him again --

And he jolts awake.

Damian's sat up in bed with his hands raised before he even realizes what's happening. Assessing the threat. The room isn't even dark, due to never sleeping during the night, so there's no place for anyone to hide except under his bed. He rolls off the bed and peeks under it, and _of course_ there's nothing there --

Damian sighs. As his adrenaline leaves his body, a dull ache sets in his back. It's all knotted up. He gingerly touches his back and it protests. Bruised. He scowls. A painful reminder of messing up. At least it should heal faster than the gunshot wound.

...

He's been wounded more than he's accustomed to here. As painful as it to admit, Grayson might be right about him needing more training. He feels cheated. Mother said he was ready. She said he was truly great. She --

Did she _lie_ to him?

He scowls again, unhappy at the prospect.

Damian gets dressed in light clothing – simple cotton pants and a breathable long-sleeved shirt – because he knows he'll spend most of the day training. When he leaves his room, Pennyworth is already sitting down, drinking tea and reading a novel. No sign of Grayson, but that's to be expected, as the man normally slept most of his day away.

Damian doesn't say anything to Pennyworth about what transpired last night. He has no clue what Grayson has told the man, but he doesn't want to recount the events.

“You're dressed down today, Master Damian,” Pennyworth says after looking him over. His eyes linger on Damian's forehead for a minute. “... How are you feeling?”

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. “You already verified the extent of any injuries last night, Pennyworth.”

“I didn't ask if you were injured, I asked how you were feeling.”

Humiliated. Damian wishes he'd killed Pyg for capturing him, tying him to a chair and trying to turn him into some kind of doll-faced abomination. For having done the same to the girl. Even though he broke himself out of the situation, untied his hands and fought his way out, it never should have happened in the first place. But Damian would never speak the words out loud. So he just says, “I'm feeling fine and capable of doing everything that's required of me today.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Pennyworth says. But he doesn't look completely convinced.

“I've decided my on art project,” Damian says to change the topic. Damian has six homeschool classes currently, four of which he was allowed to choose. And he chose to make art project-based, because really, he already knows the tools of the trade. Pennyworth isn't going to teach him anything he doesn't already know about holding a paintbrush.

“What is the project, then?”

“Gotham,” Damian says.

Pennyworth raises an eyebrow in confusion. “Gotham?” he repeats.

Damian sighs. The project sounded less vague and overly-ambitious in his head. He tries to explain. “I'll do a series of paintings to capture the city,” he says. “Of course, this will require getting some preliminary sketches in person. Stretching my legs. Walking about.”

And it serves the dual function of familiarizing himself with his father's domain. If Batman and Robin have to fight in Gotham, it's only suitable that they know the lay of the land, where enemies could hide. He doesn't want to _have_ to rely on a library of resources to do his job. The library should be in his head.

“It sounds like a good idea,” Pennyworth says. “And a good opportunity for us to see more of the city.”

Damian grimaces a little. “' _Us_ '?” He's not taking Pennyworth with him. You can't start a project with someone who's going to judge you around – Pennyworth should count himself lucky that Damian's intending on letting him see the finished pieces. The only person who'd seen his works in progress before was Ravi – and that's not something the man will ever do again.

Pennyworth sighs but does not protest.

“You and Grayson can't treat me as if I'm under house arrest,” Damian says. “In the League, I came and went as I pleased.”

Which isn't true at all, but Pennyworth isn't going to call up Ra's Al Ghul and check.

“No one wants to keep you 'under house arrest', Master Damian,” Pennyworth says.

Nice try. Like Damian buys that. But he takes the opportunity to say, “Then you won't have a problem if I go off on my own.”

A bit of silence on Pennyworth's part, then he finally says, “No, there won't be a problem.” His tone of voice indicates he may not like it, but Damian doesn't care. He doesn't _have_ to like it.

“Where's Grayson?” Damian asks. He figures they can train. Isn't that what he promised last night? And the lout doesn't have to sleep all day today. There's no way he _needs_ eight hours of sleep. That's just excessive.

“I believe he's visiting a friend,” Pennyworth says.

 _Of course_. Frivolous. _Damian_ didn't waste all day with his friends.

Well, he _wouldn't,_ if he had any. But it hardly matters. He doesn't need any. As far as he can tell, inviting more people in would just mean inviting more judgments of his character. That's the favorite activity of Father's people. Even if --

Even if they sometimes, maybe, try to understand. But he wonders if even their understanding shows a _lack_ of understanding. Grayson lowered himself by telling him that story about being injured as a child – a severe injury represents a failure, and Damian would never voluntarily share his failures with anyone. As far as Damian can tell, sharing that story was the same as defecating in public. All it does is take something that should be private and turn it into a grotesque spectacle. Mother's never done anything like it – any stories she had for him that involved a failure always served as a lesson. She included how she triumphed afterwards. _Lean from this, Damian_.

Even though Grayson clearly viewed himself as a _combat_ instructor, or the morality police, or vigilante mentor, that case was ... disturbingly lacking in lesson. Lacking in any reason for a humiliating story to be shared.

Damian sighs. _He'll_ just have to construct his own. Figure out Grayson's flaws and find out how to avoid repeating them. Turn it into one of Mother's lessons.

“Is it true that Grayson got fired when he was a child?” Damian asks Pennyworth.

“... I guess in a way, you could refer to it as that,” Pennyworth says after a pause. “Did he tell you about it?”

“Obviously. How else would I have known?”

“You don't have to worry about anything like that,” Pennyworth says. His eyebrows tilt up in the middle, like he's pantomiming concern.

Ugh. Patronizing. “I'm not worried,” Damian says. “I'm finding out more about the people I work with.”

“The people you 'work with', Master Damian?”

“That's what we do, isn't it? Work.”

Pennyworth frowns slightly.

Damian doesn't know why _he's_ upset. It's clear that Pennyworth views this through a lens of professionalism. What else would be the point of calling everyone by Master, except to enforce that you're their servant and they're above you?

“And do you want to do anything besides work?”

Well, Damian _does_ draw extra-curricularly in his room, but he's not about to show Pennyworth those sketches. Instead, he says, “My schedule is already full, Pennyworth. I have six classes, combat training, and carrying on my father's work.”

“Is six classes too much?”

How on _earth_ is that the message Pennyworth got? Damian rolls his eyes.

“It's fine if you _don't_ want to change your schedule,” Pennyworth adds. “But if you do – ”

“I _don't_ ,” Damian says forcefully. He grimaces internally. He didn't even get any of the information he wanted; Pennyworth just redirected the conversation about how Damian needs to... do something. It's unclear how, but he assumes he's being asked to change his behavior.

“Look, if you don't want to tell me what happened, just say so,” Damian says. “About Grayson I mean.”

Pennyworth pauses, thinking for a minute, then sighs. “What do you want to know?”

 _Well where's the second half_? Damian wants to ask. _Where's_ and then I kicked ass? Unless Grayson is _genuinely_ a failure. He's not super _impressive_ , but if he was genuinely a failure why would Father even tolerate his presence?

“How'd he get his job back?” Damian asks. “After being fired?”

Pennyworth buys time in the form of taking a slow sip of tea. “I don't want you to take the wrong lesson from this,” he says, “but I believe there's a grain of truth to 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'.”

“He ran away and Father gave him what he wanted?” Damian has a hard time imagining Father doing that. He has a hard time imagining _anyone_ in the semblance of a position of parental authority doing that. That's just – it's so – it's insulting and not to mention _stupid_. No one's going to follow your orders if they can just subvert them by throwing a fit.

“Not exactly,” Pennyworth says.

 _Good_.

“But I think when your father saw that Dick was still committed to this line of work, that he couldn't order him to become a civilian and expect him to be safe on the sidelines, the best option was if they were together.”

“... Why would Father even _want_ to order someone to be a civilian?” Damian asks. Though it's not as if Father wasn't trying to do it earlier, when they first met. He avoided directly ordering him, but he made it clear that he didn't want to bring Damian out in the field with him. He preferred to give that job to _Drake_.

Pennyworth rubs his forehead and looks down slightly. He exhales, almost as if gaining composure despite the complete lack of need for it in the situation. Nothing's happened. Then he looks Damian in the eye and says, “Maybe he wanted him to be able to have an actual childhood.”

Damian doesn't like this. Whenever Pennyworth gets like this, serious and careful around his words, Damian gets the idea he's trying to tell him something without directly saying so. Which is annoying. He'd rather the man just get to the point.

Either way, Damian's not about to try to guess the man's intentions. He'll make him come out and say anything if he wants to. So he just says, “You can't have a childhood if you're _dead_.”

“Pardon?”

Hmm, Damian really thought that train of thought was more obvious. He explains it. “Obviously being combat trained _and_ experienced makes you prepared to defend yourself. It sounds like Father just wanted to force Grayson into the role of a helpless civilian. And since Gotham is dangerous, that probably would have killed him.”

“Master Damian, you do know that a _large_ portion of people grow up in Gotham without dying, correct?”

“Well, the _world's_ dangerous,” Damian says. “Isn't it irresponsible to not prepare your children for that?”

“That may have... some merit,” Pennyworth says. Again. Carefully. “But it's also possible to prepare children for self-defense situations without sending them into battle.”

“It's not the same,” Damian says, because it _isn't_. The first time he killed someone, he nearly froze after the act. If he'd done it in a situation with multiple combatants, he'd be _dead_. So Ra's Al Ghul's idea to send him out for a simple task as a test proved smart.

Damian, however, does _not_ share his evidence with Pennyworth, for the same reason he wishes Grayson hadn't shared the story. The nonconstructive sharing of pointless, humiliating weakness – even if Damian succeeded in his mission, freezing up was a sign that something was wrong with him back then. Though, Damian supposes, Pennyworth and Grayson would probably take him _not_ freezing up now as a sign that something is wrong with him _now_.

The same as always here. He was supposed to be perfect. He'd been rigorously trained since birth for that very reason. But none of his training matters here. No matter what he does, he can't win.

“How isn't it the same?” asks Pennyworth.

Damian shakes his head. “I'm going down to the bunker,” he says. “I'll be up later in time for class.”

And he leaves.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Mother,_

_I am writing this letter to ask why you lied to me._

_You said that I was ready for everything. I don't feel ready for_ anything _._ _Everyone keeps injuring me._ _And the rules here are stupid and everyone keeps acting like there's something they know that I don't._

_And you said that Father was noble and made it sound like he was like us but his people aren't anything like us at all. They don't have any dignity at all. They want to command me like you and Ra's did, but they don't know how._

_Why did you lie to me?_

_I wouldn't have been offended if you just told me I needed more training; I would have done everything that you required of me until I was perfect. Haven't I done so all my life? Every mission you or Ra's Al Ghul gave me I succeeded in, every order I carried out. It would have been as simple as telling me to get better and providing the instructors and I would have done it with no question. I've never not done anything you asked of me. You can't treat me like a weapon that can be sheathed and stashed away when it's no longer useful._

 

Damian scowls at what he's written so far. It's been overly emotional. A rambling childish mess and everything he wants to keep saying, keep telling his mother, seems even more so. _It's not fair_ he wants to say. He'd said that once. When he was sent to the Black Citadel to train. _Why can't you come with me, Mama_? he had asked. _I want you to come. It's not fair!_

Mother had knelt down and took his face in her hands. _I know it's not fair, my beloved son._ Life _isn't fair. The best thing we can do is train you to protect yourself from it._

She failed on that account, Damian wants to say. Even though he knows he's good. He's painfully not as good as he _could_ be. But crying to his mother won't change that. If anything, sending her the letter would just convince her she was right to lie to him, to coddle him like a child at Nanda Parbat.

If he even _could_ send it to her. The more likely outcome is that Grayson or Pennyworth find his letter and use it as evidence against him. Evidence for what, he's not sure. Not being good enough, probably. He straight up _wrote the words_ on the letter. I needed more training. Everyone keeps injuring me. The meaning is clear. I'm not good enough.

Damian balls his hands into fists. His nails dig into his palms.

He grabs the previous letter he wrote out of his desk drawer. He knows what he has to do.

So he takes both letters to the kitchen, lights the stove burner, and burns them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is a scene I'm not sure we get in canon.
> 
> It seems like in a lot of the early stuff, Damian kind of gets humiliation-conga'd, especially in Battle for the Cowl. Like bad stuff just keeps happening to him. But it came across more as a writer's karma for him being annoying and no attempt was really made to see how a kid who was raised in such a rigid environment with such high expectations might react to not winning like that. So, have a chapter dedicated to it. And Damian's complicated feelings towards his mom.
> 
> Also for some of his characterization re: Parenting. It feels like New Earth Damian's relationship (2006-2011) with the Al Ghuls and his mom is very different than Prime Earth (2011-)'s. New Earth Damian he pretty much explicitly didn't meet his mom until he was 8 years old, we got the idea he got to do whatever he wanted. In Prime Earth, we see flashbacks of her raising him (and training him as an assassin) since he was a baby and he obviously *can't* do whatever he wants. Damian gets chewed out (and whacked on the head) for calling Talia by her first name there. I mentioned in my Batman and Son re-write that I was trying to make his character consistent to the Damian we see written by Tomasi in Batman and Robin (2011) and Gleason in Robin: Son of Batman.


	19. Father's Day Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman knocks some heads together downtown, and Cassandra trains with her new protege.

Up above the streets of Gotham, Batman watches.

Perched on top of a skyscraper, the a huge portion of the city is visible, possible to survey. A good vantage point for many people. Snipers. Spies. Vigilantes.

Down below, the cars look like toys and the people look like ants. But even with their small size, it's possible to tell what they're doing. A couple – body language loose and relaxed, walking through the street with no care in the world. The brightly lit storefronts of downtown probably make them feel safe. They're not in _Old Gotham_ or the East End. There are people around.

And one of those people is following them. Batman waits for them to realize. How could they not? The person hasn't been exceptionally  _subtle_ – though maybe years of training at this could make you underestimate how unaware some people truly are.

Batman sighs and retrieves a grapple from the utility belt. No moving until something's  _obviously_ wrong, don't want to give any enemies the idea that they're being watched until you know for sure what to do. But you have to be  _prepared_ to move. To get there in time. To protect everyone. The same mantra as always. Nobody dies tonight. 

The stalker starts rummaging a hand towards the center of his body. If the man were closer, Batman could tell if he's reaching for a gun for  _sure_ , but there's no point in waiting. So Batman takes the grapple, throws it to the next building across the street and swings down in one smooth motion. The potential attacker is grabbed before he can realize what's happening, and the momentum of the swing carries both of them into the ally. No one else even had time to notice anything. Just a  _whoosh_ of wind and a cape.

“What the hell?!” the man yells. In his hand, a gun.

_I was right_ .

The man holds the gun up to Batman, who does  _not_ dodge out of the way of any potential bullets. After all, civilians are in the background.  _They_ don't have a kevlar chestplate on.

It doesn't matter. His movements are erratic, he's clearly freaked out. He does that  _thing_ – that thing everyone who isn't trained does before they attack you. Clenching up in a full-bodied  _flinch_ .

Batman crosses the space between them, twists the gun out of the man's hand, ejects the magazine, and shoves him to the ground in the space of a second and a half.

_Idiot_ .

The man trembles before before her, and Batman smiles.

 

***

 

The young woman wakes, and she does not know her name.

She spent the first 17 years of her life not _having_ one, after all. There was never a need to refer to her by name because there was never a need to refer to her _period_. If he communicated something, it was by demonstration. Action. The way she understood. The first eight years of her life, a montage of training and silent instructors, with _him_ as the only constant.

(She knows his name now, David Cain, the man who is technically her father. But it still feels a little unnatural to call him either by either of those things. After all, back then, he did not need a name, either. He was the only consistent figure in her life).

The next nine years of her life were characterized by a complete lack of name, as well. She witnessed the world, but never  _interacted_ with it for more than a couple days or weeks at a time. No one would communicate with her. She wove in and out of it, wracked with guilt over her kill, disconnected, as if she were dreaming. 

The only thing that pulled her from it was them.

Batman. Azrael. Robin. Oracle. Nightwing. Spoiler.  _Heroes_ . People who used their violence not to hurt, but to help. People who took time to communicate with her, even when she couldn’t understand them. They gave her a place and a home and a name.  _Batgirl_ . But that's not her name anymore.

She could have chosen  _Batwoman_ , she supposes. After all, a woman is a girl who is all grown up, and now that Spoiler is Batgirl, she must be her mentor. But there already is a Batwoman. She's seen her. Red and black. United States military training. She's sparred instructors from there when she was a child. She knows how they fight. And  _Batwoman_ fights the same way.

There already is a Batman, too. She knows this. She doesn't conceptualize him as the real one, even mentally she can't help but call him  _Nightwing,_ but to be fair, she doesn't contextualize herself as the real one either. They're both borrowing the name. Both trying to honor him in their own way. He –

Robin – the real Robin, she means – said to her that he thought Batman wanted them to take his place if anything happened to him. He didn't want to do that. She did. More than anything. But she didn't want –

She didn't want something to happen to him. And now it did. Why didn't he ask for help? Why didn't he ask her to fight at his side? She would have done it – she would have done  _anything_ – 

She can't do anything about it now. Robin thinks that  _he_ can. He didn't ask if he had her support. He didn't ask her to help. Maybe because he could tell she didn't believe him. She's seen death. They both have. But she's  _caused_ it. The first time she knew what it was was during her kill. The man's pain and surprise and fear. Her realization.  _That's what it means. That's what I did. Me._ Too much all at once.

So it's not as if she doesn't wish it was something she could undo. If there was any justice in the world, it would be possible. But outside of Lazarus Pits, which drag you back into this world screaming, angry, strong, dangerous enough to kill many of your potential rescuers, she hasn't seen it. And –

And the rest of the family said it was impossible. That Batman's body was too badly damaged. Robin said it didn't matter. That wasn't Batman's body. She wishes she believed him. It'd be easier if she did. Less painful. But she was taught to follow the evidence, and he didn't have any that wasn't denial or wishful thinking.

And then... she found herself without a name.

She still has Cassandra. She knows it. Oracle's idea for her name. Unsurprising, given her own. Oracle – Barbara – wishes she could be a civilian more often. A source of conflict. Relax.  _There's still work to do._ Take care of yourself.  _Other people need me more._ It got easier after Shiva. It got easier after –

Well she can never  _change_ her kill, but she no longer felt like she had to die for it. The only way forward was an eye-for-an-eye, from her victim to her. But not anymore.

But even though she can work as Batman, she can't  _be_ him, can't replace him. That's insulting. So outside of work she's still  _Cassandra_ . She thinks. The only problem is she doesn't know what to  _do_ outside of work. It's her reason for being. Without it, who is she?

Spoiler – Batgirl – Stephanie, she means –  _Stephanie_ invited her to lunch. To a cafe. It's just outside of campus, she said. Really good cappuccinos. 

Cassandra meets her there in Cassandra clothes. Black jeans. Boots. Jacket. Things civilians wear. Stephanie meets her there in Stephanie clothes. Blue jeans. Purple T-shirt. Hoodie. No costume underneath. It's too bulky. No weapons. Cassandra has no weapons either. She doesn't need them.

“You look good,” Stephanie says when she sees her. She smiles. “How is it going?”

How do you answer that? It's going the only way it can. Keep fighting. But Cassandra just returns the smile. People like it when you make their motions back at them. She also shrugs. Non-verbal for  _I don't know_ . I don't know how it's going.

“How is it going for you?” Cassandra asks. People also like it when you ask the same question back to them. It's called reciprocity. Barbara's word. She likes big words.

Stephanie's smile widens. She's relaxed. Contagiously relaxed. “Good,” she says. “I got a philosophy class now. And comp sci.  _Babs_ teaches comp sci, you know?”

Cassandra did not know. She didn't ask Barbara what she did when she was not Oracle. She assumed that she relaxed. Did the things she wanted Cassandra to do. Took care of herself.

“She is a good teacher,” Cassandra says eventually.

“Yeah. And we get to see each other outside of – ” conspiratorial look around the cafe, making sure no one is listening. “ – you know. So that's cool.”

Cassandra nods.

“Like I'm seeing you outside of it. What  _do_ you do when you're not teaching me?”

Cassandra shrugs. Not for  _I don't know_ in this case. But she doesn't want to articulate it to Stephanie. She can't do it in public, anyway. 

… Though Stephanie  _probably_ wanted to hear about Cassandra, not Batman. But Cassandra doesn't  _do_ anything other than train herself, Stephanie, and work.

“You know, if you wanted,” Stephanie says, “You could always enroll in school here. We could do it together. It might be nice.”

Cassandra blinks.

Did Stephanie forget? “I can't read,” she says.

Stephanie's eyes widen, and imperceptibly  to anyone except Cassandra, she shrinks back slightly. “Oh. I'm sorry – ” 

“Why?”

“Is it a sore topic?”

Cassandra shakes her head. Well, maybe a little. But she doesn't need to burden Stephanie with the worries of what could have been, if she'd been raised differently. But if she'd been raised differently, she wouldn't be able to do what she does. She wouldn't be perfect.

“Well there's probably a way to learn stuff if you can't read,” Stephanie says. “You know. If you want to. I bet they have audiobooks for blind students – ”

“I'm not blind though.”'

“Yeah, but my point is, there are like, academic accommodations and stuff – if you want them.”

Cassandra sighs. She really doesn't see any point in going to school. She wasn't aware Stephanie did either. “Why are  _you_ going?” she asks.

Stephanie cringes slightly. “... It's part of the deal with my mom. You know. Be a normal girl. Get an education.”

Cassandra nods, like she understands, even though she doesn't. “And your mother knows about – ?”

Stephanie laughs loudly and a bit frantically. “No. No no no no no. Just.... no.”

“No,” Cassandra repeats.

“Yeah. 'No.' She'd freak out.”

Cassandra would not be capable of blaming her. Stephanie 'died' in the line of duty. Her mother can't fight. Can't protect her. Of course she'd freak out.

Cassandra couldn't protect her either. Not without being by her every second of the day. Unfeasible. Insulting to Stephanie. The only option she sees now is take two: teacher her how to protect herself.

Their cappuccinos arrive to the counter. Cardboard cups, ready for take-out. Cassandra takes a big sip of hers at once. Hot. But chocolatey. She asked for chocolate. It's tasty.

“... Do you think I should tell her?” Stephanie asks.

She's asking  _Cassandra_ for advice on how to deal with civilians? Cassandra doesn't interact with any civilians.

“She's your mother,” Cassandra says. “You'd know best.”

“Well you already know my judgment,” Stephanie says.

_Then why ask_ ? Cassandra wants to say. But she supposes that Stephanie has doubts. She wants her to say  _No, you're doing the right thing_ or  _Yes, tell your mother because she will love you no matter what_ . But Cassandra's never met her. She can't give advice like that. 

So instead of advice, she decides to ask about what is clearly on Stephanie's mind. “Is school... fun?”

Stephanie shrugs and rubs a hand through her hair. “God, I don't know. Some of it's interesting, some of it's frustrating. Especially, you know, cliques and stuff?”

“Clicks?”

“ _Cliques_ ,” Stephanie repeats. With an  _ee_ sound, Cassandra now notices. “You know, like an exclusionary club of buddies. You're all close-knit but no one else is allowed in.”

Cassandra smiles slightly.

“What?”

“Are  _we_ a clique?”

Stephanie laughs. This time it's not nervous at all. “Oh my god.” She peeks around, then whispers, “Bat-clique.” Back in her normal voice, she says, “I've got to tell Barbara that.”

Cassandra's glad to see her laugh. She doesn't get to be the cause of it often. “Would it amuse her?”

“She'd either think it's hilarious or be offended,” Stephanie says. “Though it'd be funnier if – ” Her smile suddenly drops.

“It'd be funnier if Bruce was here,” Cassandra finishes. She frowns. Why would it be funnier? Would he also be offended? She didn't realize he might think the comment was inappropriate. Suddenly the question seems in poor taste.  _This is a sacred duty_ . Was she not treating it as such?

“Yeah,” Stephanie says. She kicks her feet against the sidewalk, dejectedly. She attempts to smile again. To act like nothing happened. She elbows Cassandra gently. “So, how about we go for a walk,” she says, “And you can show me what you've been working on.”

 

***

 

Sparring Spoiler – Batgirl – is fun.

It's funner than an all-out fight. Cassandra tries to approach it differently than earlier. When they sparred the first time, back when she was still Spoiler, Cassandra mostly wanted to do her own training. She didn't go _all-out_ , she never does, unless her sparring partner gives her permission. But she didn't hold back more than usual or try to make it more fair either. She merely did what came naturally, which lead to her being bored and Spoiler being frustrated.

It was Oracle's advice. _Positive reinforcement_. It’s not enough to show someone all the areas they can improve on; you have to let them see what they’re doing that’s actually _good_. _I_ never trained that way, Cassandra said. The only acceptable options were complete success or complete defeat. No half-measures. I know, Oracle said. I wouldn’t call your training ideal.

So Cassandra lets herself by slightly worse when fighting. Not boring-worse. She makes it a game. She isn't Cassandra-but-slow. She mimics Spoiler's – Batgirl's – moves right back at her. She's Stephanie-but-fast.

She and Batgirl are sparring in the Batcave. Batman’s old place. Nightwing evacuated, out of grief or avoidance or insecurity, but they’re still here.

Batgirl is using the terrain to her advantage. She's grappled up to the ceiling, with a batline attached to a stalactite. Cassandra doesn't have her batarangs with her. She hasn't told anyone what she's doing. So she can't cut the rope. It puts Batgirl in an advantageous position. Like she's been taught to exploit. Good.

Up high, Batgirl catches her breath a little. Cassandra's not about to wait around and do _nothing_ , even if Batgirl does need a brief reprieve. She looks for something in the Batcave. Something to throw.

Her head is turned, and Batgirl moves in her peripheral vision. She throws down a smoke pellet and Cassandra takes a breath before impact, before it explodes. She doesn't move. She waits.

A _zippppp_ of the grapple line. Batgirl is rappelling down towards her, rushing her. Cassandra steps to the side, so she's not tackled. Batgirl's feet hit the ground. Cassandra checks her first instinct, to sweep her legs out from under her and throw her to the ground before she can get her bearings. Instead, she mimics something she's seen Batgirl do – a strong hook around chin-height to where she heard Batgirl land – she still has her eyes shut, to keep out the smoke, and she knows Batgirl does, too. After all, this Batgirl mask doesn't cover her entire face or have the goggles that Nightwing and Robin do.

Batgirl goes down. Cassandra grabs her by the arm and escorts them both out of the smoke.

Batgirl rubs her jaw. “Man,” she says. “You used to _do that_ , all the time, remember?”

“Do what?” Cassandra asks.

“Remember when you broke my jaw?”

Cassandra cringes slightly. She didn't _break_ her jaw, she thought they went over this. But she nods. “I remember... rendering you unconscious to keep you safe,” she says.

Batgirl rolls her eyes. “How is being unconscious going to keep me safe?”

“It won't,” Cassandra says. “I won't do it again.” It'd defeat the entire purpose of their partnership. Cassandra's supposed to train her, and Batgirl can't learn without seeing hard combat. Even if it'd be safer if she was on the sidelines.

Batgirl smiles and wraps and arm around Cassandra's shoulder. “Good,” she says. “Glad you finally got how _creepy_ that was.”

 _Creepy_? But Cassandra doesn't protest. She doesn't want them to argue. She wants Batgirl to get better and –

Is it selfish if she wants them to have fun?

“About creepiness,” Cassandra says. “Is that why you don't have goggles?” She gestures at Batgirl's face.

She remembers people thought _she_ was creepy. She had no soul. They couldn't see her eyes. Why did it matter?

“Nah, Barbara designed it,” Batgirl says. “She didn't put the goggles in it.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, her Batgirl costume didn't have that spooky mask yours did.”

“I remember.”

“You don't approve?”

Cassandra shrugs. “Depends on how good you are at fighting blind.”

“Well, I figure it's at the same level of disadvantage as _Spoiler_ was,” Batgirl says. “I didn't have any of the fancy goggles the guys got. I had to make my outfit at home, remember?”

Cassandra nods. She has no idea _how_ Spoiler made her outfit. She had to assemble one for Batman, obviously, she didn't use an old one. But that was with four years of hero knowledge and some old parts of a bat-suit Barbara lent her a while ago. Not as a teenager living with one civilian and one supervillain.

Cassandra raises her hands up to fight again. They've talked enough. She thinks. Batgirl must agree, because she does the same gesture back at her.

Cassandra comes in. She leaps at Batgirl with a sidekick. Telegraphed. Visible. Batgirl dodges. As Cassandra lands, Batgirl leaps at her with an elbow, attempting to fall on her and hit her back. Cassandra rolls to the side. Batgirl hits the floor. _Ow_ says Batgirl. Landed on her funny bone. But undeterred.

She quickly attempts to sweep Cassandra's legs, and Cassandra dances backwards.

It goes like this for a bit. Exchange of blows. Spoiler asked her earlier if it was like a conversation. If non-verbal is your first language, can you tell me what I'm thinking when we fight? No. I'm not telepathic. I can tell you're going to hit me with a punch because of the movement. I can't tell if you are thinking _I hate you_ or _I love you_ or _let's get chicken for dinner_.

That's not very exciting, Spoiler said.

But there _is_ more. It's not _quite_ like that. You move differently when you're stressed. Tensed. When you're relaxed. So I know if you're angry or your tension is high, and I know if you're just having fun, you're relaxed, you're not taking it seriously. Or if you're a professional and clearly giving me as few signs to read as you can.

Oh? So what am I thinking now? Spoiler had asked, and stood facing her with both shoulders squared to the front, arms up, one hand beckoning her forward. A very overt challenge. Confident stance to leave your stomach wide open like that.

But Cassandra noticed the slight tension in her knees, the way she was shifting her weight, clearly ready to move the instant Cassandra did. So she said _You want to trick me into attacking you right now_. It may not have been correct. But it _could_ be, it _could_ be intended to get Cassandra to lower her defenses.

Spoiler had laughed at that and said I'm gonna get you some day. You just see. I'll do it. Not angrily. Confident. Proud.

They're at the same point now. There's no conversation in this sparring that anyone could put any words to, but Cassandra can tell that Batgirl's trying her damnedest. She's putting on the face of being relaxed, she's smiling, it's just sparring, it doesn't matter, but she's still tense. It matters so much to her. Which isn't weird. Cassandra wouldn't ever tell her sparring _doesn't_ matter, anyway, so Cassandra's wondering why she's trying to put on that relaxed face in the first place.

Unless, she realizes, Stephanie's just _genuinely_ happy to be with her here.

 

 

***

 

Batgirl was in her costume to train, and now she's in her costume on patrol.

Cassandra is not going with her. Batgirl has told her not to. Despite Cassandra wanting to. Despite her wanting to protect her. I'm on comms, Oracle had said when Cassandra objected. I'm constantly connected to Stephanie. If something goes wrong, I'll alert you.

Cassandra does not have super speed. Being on comms doesn't matter. But she didn't verbally object. It'd defeat the purpose. The purpose being Batgirl being more confident herself. Being better. Even if it's risky. Even if –

Even if it could happen again.

Instead, Cassandra leaves the Batcave and goes to where she stashed _her_ suit. She puts it on – the thick soled boots to boost her height a little, the kevlar plating on the chest, the cowl, which has proper goggles but nothing covering the bottom of her face.

And as she puts it on, she temporarily becomes Batman.

She remembers how he moved. It's like a register of voice for anyone else. The idioms and different levels of formality – or however a laughing Barbara explained why Cassandra probably didn't want to call Batman _“Dude_ ” after she had seen it on television – the pop culture references: the minute things that made one person sound different from the next if you speak naturally. For Cassandra, those blend together. She understands intellectually the difference, but recalling it in an instant is difficult.

 _Her_ registers and idioms and references are martial arts and fighting techniques. So his _voice_ was the clearly calculated decisions on which punches to dodge completely and which ones to absorb with his armor, a change in position, or an exhale. The stepping forward into an enemy's space, making _them_ move rather than him. The barely-noticeable way he scans the room, moving his body as little as possible and his eyes as much as possible, so people can't see just _how much_ he's gotten about them.

She can do it all.

He's a hair slower than she is, he always was. He always had to _think_ more about moving, because he didn't _know_ , like she did. The movements the foes would make don't process as fast in his brain.

She mimics the slight slowness, as well. Even though it's a disadvantage. She'll drop it if there's a real need. But there hasn't been a need yet. After all, slightly slower than Cassandra is still pretty damn fast.

She travels the night. She doesn't have an ongoing case right now. She knows it's too much to hope that it will remain that way. Last night, she tracked down the man who'd murdered his wife. A couple days ago, she'd arrested a ring of drug traffickers. In Gotham, you don't have to travel too far to find a horrific crime that needs solving. So while she puts an end to one mugging or one individual isolated case of violent crime, she knows it's unlikely that she'll _only_ be working on those tonight. Especially since each seemingly isolated incident might be a clue for something worse to come. Not an isolated incident at all but rather the first sign of a new force in organized crime or a supervillain plot.

These are the events Batman witnesses tonight:

An attempted carjacking (over in two point five seconds, she leaves the aggressor unconscious on the sidewalk).

An arms deal gone bad (two gangs, both preparing to shoot at each other over a dispute in the money. Batman breaks them up and stops a pointless massacre. They keep yelling at each other even after she's tied them up and disarmed them).

A teenage girl, running down the street. No one seems to be following her but she is clearly terrified.

Batman gives the girl some unknown piece of mind. She follows her from the rooftops. Watches as the girl trips over a crumbling curb, swoops down and offers her a hand up.

The girl screams.

Up closer, it's easier to see her features. Round face, bright blue eyes, slightly olive toned complexion. Wearing jeans and a hoodie. Shaking like a leaf.

Batman does not retract her offer of the hand. She tries. She knows it will be hard, but if she wants to do it she has to say something, so she says as close as she can to his voice, “Are you all right?”

The girl looks up and down between Batman's hand and face. Eventually, she takes her hand and pulls herself up.

“Wow,” she says. The adrenaline is seeping out of her voice, she's calming down. “You, uh,” she starts walking around Batman, almost as if she's examining her. “You are _way_ shorter than I expected.”

Her mistake for approaching someone from straight on. Best to do it from a vantage point. Maintain an aura of mystery. Batman – the real Batman – didn't allow himself to be seen a lot. When he confronted enemies, it was always in combat or from an intimidating perspective. But this girl is not an enemy.

Batman looks both ways down the street, trying to see if she can find whatever the girl thought was chasing her. “You're afraid,” she says.

The girl reaches a hand forwards and touches Batman's chest. The bat symbol. She immediately yanks her hand back once she realizes and says “... sorry.”

“Let me get you home,” Batman says.

The girl shakes her head. She steps back a bit.

Batman frowns. Talking like this, with this voice, is mentally exhausting. She has to think three times as hard as she normally does to maintain it. “Are you a runaway?” she asks.

The girl shakes her head some more.

 _A rev of a motorcycle engine in the distance_.

The girl steps behind Batman, as if Batman is car-crash proof. Batman takes out her grapple gun, wraps one arm around the girls waist, and prepares to pull them to safety. She shoots the grapple at the top of the three-story brick building closest to them. An apartment building, she thinks. And pulls them up to the roof.

The girl yelps in surprise.

“ _Shhh_ ,” says Batman. She releases the girl on the roof. It's flat. Slight lip to it. Difficult to fall off unintentionally. “Is someone after you?” she whispers.

She's not sure she keeps the voice up on the whisper. It's hard to growl when you're whispering.

The girl nods mutely.

“Wait here,” Batman says. And she peeks over the edge as the motorcycle turns onto the street. Red. Old. Two men on it. One of them is holding an automatic rifle.

Clearly up to no good. She prepares a tracking device. Throws it on the back of the vehicle as it passes.

“Why are they after you?” Batman asks.

The girl shrugs. “I don't know. I saw. I mean. I thought I saw. I – I – welltherewerejustsomeweirdpeopleinmydadsplaceyouknowIhewasn't – ”

Whatever the girl is saying is not intelligible to Batman. She's 90 percent sure that even if her first language was spoken, she wouldn't understand.

Got to calm her down. She seemed to be calm when she was distracted. Not thinking about it. “What's your name?” Batman asks.

The girl takes a breath. “Fina,” she says. “I mean Serafina. Serafina Caruso.”

“Fina,” Batman says. “My name is Batman.”

Fina narrows her eyes. “That's not your _real_ name.”

“It is right now.”

Fina leans a little closer to Batman and wraps both of her hands around one of Batman's arms. A command or request. Don't leave me here. Protect me.

“You're safe,” Batman says. She doesn't say what she wants to do next. _Tell me what happened_. She wants Fina to stay calm. To wind down. She – she doesn't know how to make people do that. Not on command. So she does the other option. She waits.

She waits with the girl on the rooftop and hopes that no catastrophes lead her away, that she can just do the most important part of the job. Fighting is one part. The part with the clearest answer, the most obvious solution that comes to her in the blink of an eye.

Just being there doesn't have an obvious solution. You might say the wrong thing. Which is why sometimes, it helps to say nothing at all.

And she can do that, so she does do that, until Fina is ready to tell her what happened.

 

***

 

This is what Fina witnessed:

She came home after work to multiple, unfamiliar cars parked outside her apartment building. Not unusual – a lot of people lived in it, and they all had guests at some point. She didn't think anything of it.

She went up the stairs to her apartment and that's when the strangeness started. The light was on (it's normally off by now) and people were talking behind the door. Unfamiliar men's voices.

She waited a moment before entering. They sounded _angry_. Dad said something. He sounded _scared_. The other men said: “It's not that hard. He'll be there, six o'clock on Wednesday. Go in, do the deed, and we're good.”

And Dad said, “And no one will trace it back to me?”

And Fina thought _What?_

She entered the apartment. It was stupid, she clarified later. Something widgey (her words) was obviously going on. But Dad sounded freaked out and is it really _wrong_ to want to protect your dad? She burst in there, ready to tell people to get fucked, and Dad was holding a gun. (She could not say which kind of gun, other than it was small, like a pistol or revolver, not a rifle). He was holding it in his hands like he didn't know what to do with it. Four other men, dressed in various degrees of business casual, all Caucasian, were in the apartment. One of them had sunglasses on, even though he was indoors and it was night.

Dad startled and dropped the gun. He started towards Fina, like he was going to explain something.

One of the business casual men demanded an explanation for the brat. His words. A _different_ one reached for his waistband, preparing to grab a weapon.

“Dad?” Fina asked.

The gun man grabbed a weapon, his partner with sunglasses said _idiot! a_ nd smiled at Fina, clearly ready to explain something –

And she admitted that she wanted to run. She grabbed Dad's wrist, trying to drag him along, but he only wrapped his arms around her to keep her there –

So she bit him. She bit his hand really hard and he dropped her and she ran.

She had no clue what was going on. But she didn't feel safe. And whatever Dad was doing wasn't helping. It was hurting, if anything.

Does that make me a coward, she'd asked Batman, after she'd explained. If I just left my dad with all of those guys?

No, Batman had said. It makes you smart. You did the right thing. You protected yourself. I have a friend who can check on your father (and she called Oracle, to get her to send Batgirl over).

And Fina had breathed a sigh of relief.

Batman convinced her to let her escort her to the police station. If some criminals are threatening your father, you should have the authorities know, she'd said. So that when we catch them, the charges stick.

And what if there really was a good explanation for it? Fina had asked.

And Batman explained: Then our investigation will reveal as much. Your father will be fine. No harm, no foul.

On their way to the police station, Batman had asked about Fina's father. He's a bouncer, Fina said. For My Alibi.

Batman had frowned at that. It's not a bar known for being frequented by people who _aren't_ criminals. But she didn't say so to Fina. She knew that saying as much would only prompt her to defend her dad.

After dropping Fina off at the police station, Batman waits a minute. She doesn't leave immediately, she's still recovering her brain. She needs to get her head on straight before jumping into combat or taking a case, and talking so much, especially in a voice that wasn't hers, had only made the world feel immediate in a bad way.

She breathes in the cool air of the night. In and out. That's better. The fluorescent lights of the city are below her, she's on the top of a roof, and she can just focus her gaze up on the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! After 70k words, we finally figure out what is going on with Cass.
> 
> Honestly this huge delay is intentional. And not because I wanted to be annoying about it, but because to the best of my knowledge, Dick doesn't actually *want* to be Batman. He's just doing it because he feels like no one else can or will. So he has to get settled into the roll before he finds out Cass wants to do the same thing, because otherwise he'd be like "Wow thank fucking god you are so welcome to this". But now he's settled down a bit and he's got Damian to look after (in a very precarious situation) so hopefully he doesn't want to give it up. 
> 
> Now, as for why Cass is Batman instead of Black Bat: To the best of my knowledge, Cass barely appears as Black Bat. Like Gates of Gotham, 1 issue of Red Robin, I think she went to Hong Kong for a bit? ... am I missing anything else? It seems like she was mostly made Black Bat to free up Batgirl for Stephanie and the writers had no clue what to do with her, so I don't feel bad about ignoring canon in this instance.
> 
> We also know Cassandra wants to take over for Batman (in one of her Batgirl solo issues, Tim as Robin says he thinks Batman wants them to take over for him if anything happens to him, and he says he doesn't want that, but Cassandra says she wants it more than anything.
> 
> Also due to Cass's scant appearances post Batgirl (2000), I'm just making my own plot to hang some character interactions on. Feel free to tell me if it works.


	20. Father's Day Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara and Stephanie join Cass on her case, and Dick stops by the Batcave to re-supply.

Barbara is surprised to get a call from Cassandra that night. She was sure that Cassandra wasn't willing to admit to _needing_ help with how she was right now. She wanted to do everything herself and not let anyone else know what was going on.

“Oracle here,” Barbara says as she answers.

There's a bit of silence on Cassandra's end, then she finally says quickly, as if it's been rehearsed, “Send Batgirl to this address. She needs to verify the safety of a civilian present.”

Out of communication except to give orders. She really _is_ taking on Batman's mantle. But Barbara doesn't argue. Cassandra's earned the benefit of her doubt more than Bruce ever had. “What threats should Batgirl expect?” she asks.

“Maybe four men. White. In suits. Armed. Hand guns.”

“Should Batgirl expect you there?”

“No.”

A _click_ on Cassandra's end of the comm, and Babs gets back to work.

She can see what Stephanie's doing through the camera built into her suit. That was intentional on her part. She needs to be able to monitor her operatives. And if she's actually supposed to _mentor_ Stephanie, knowing what she's doing is imperative.

Right now, Stephanie is racing above the rooftops. The view of Stephanie's feet racing in the bottom of the screen make her slightly carsick. More so than rooftop hopping on your own ever can – you're essentially along for the ride in someone else's body from her POV. And you know. Someone else might do what you _wouldn't_ do.

Since she's not busy, and Cassandra presumably wouldn't have called unless it was important, Barbara redirects her to Cassandra's address. She doesn't bother mentioning the lead came from Cass, though.

Stephanie enters the apartment building. Through her camera, Barbara can see the green, splotchy carpet and the flickering fluorescent lights in the hallway. The hallway is narrow, if a person of average height stuck their arms out, they'd touch both walls before they were fully extended. A cramped place to be for a fight.

Barbara says as much and notices Stephanie's stance change after she hears her advice. The slight up and down bob of the camera that happened when she walks changed, replaced by a more smooth view, as Stephanie stepped lighter and tried harder to avoid making noise.

“Do I knock on the door?” Stephanie asks.

Barbara sighs. She wishes Cassandra had given her more information. Breaking into a room with armed people could lead to Stephanie getting shot at, but knocking would also just give away any advantage of surprise if they're expecting trouble.

“Yes,” Barbara says. She's not sure it's the right call, but she has to make one. She just hopes it doesn't bite her, or rather Stephanie, in the ass.

“But be prepared for trouble,” she adds, as Stephanie raises her hand up.

“ _Obviously_ ,” she says. Voice barely over a whisper. Then she knocks.

Barbara starts a recording software on the camera on Stephanie's cowl, so that if they need to get more details later, they can. The door opens barely a crack, and she can see only the eye and part of the mouth of a man behind it.

“Hello,” Stephanie says. Her voice is loud and bright against the nighttime silence in the rest of the room. “It's your local Batgirl – !”

_Slam!_

“Rude!”

Barbara pinches the bridge of her nose. She doesn't know what she was expecting.

“Uh... sir,” Stephanie says awkwardly. Voice still pitched friendly, still trying to get whomever is in there to relax. “I'm only here because I heard that you might be in danger, I'm not here to arrest anyone.”

“Who told ya that?!” the guy yells from his side of the door.

“Good question,” she whispers to Oracle. “Who did tell us that.”

“... Cassandra.”

“Cass is on this case?” Then, louder, to the man in the apartment, she says, “And extremely trustworthy ally, jerkwad!”

Barbara sighs. “Jerkwad?” she asks.

“Hey, he slammed the door in my face. You said this guy was in danger, right?”

Barbara nods tentatively. “Yes, that's what Cassandra said. Or she said to verify his safety, at least.”

“I'm gonna bust the door down,” she says, and before Oracle can suggest a slightly more subtle strategy, she draws back a leg for a sidekick and kicks the area right under the handle of the door _hard_.

It opens with a jolt and splinters fly up in Barbara's screen.

She takes in the threats, and knows that Stephanie is doing the same thing at the same time. Two men in suits, not four. One man in pajamas. A pistol on the table, stand with a microwave cart behind them. The men in suits have both immediately started reaching for guns. Stephanie, from her side of the table, kicks it hard and sends it flying back into them.

Stephanie starts with the man closest to the presumed civilian – she rushes up between them, grabs the guy by his suit lapels, and shoves him back into his buddy. As he gets back up and aims the gun at her, she takes a step in and strikes his hand with the gun, to the inside of his wrist with one hand and the outside of his hand with the other, bending his hand at a 90 degree angle and keeping him from firing. She rotates his hand further, putting him in a wrist lock –

a shadow on the floor. Something above her. “Batgirl!” Barbara shouts.

Stephanie jumps out of the way, and a microwave slams against the floor right where her head _would_ have been. The guy in pajamas has his hands up, like he just tried to whack her with it.

Now, both of the other men have re-grabbed their weapons. Stephanie starts to rush _inside_ the apartment, away from the door.

“You should be leaving,” Oracle says. “You don't want a firefight in a building with civilians.”

“I know, and trust me.” A gunshot goes off, right where Stephanie's head used to be, and Stephanie bursts into a bedroom.

“Drop a listening device before you go,” Oracle adds.

Stephanie does, and Barbara _hopes_ she does it subtly enough that it won't be spotted immediately. Then she jumps through the bedroom window and falls into the street. She shoots a grapple up, stopping herself just before she gets to the ground.

More gunshots, but she's gone by then.

“I figured I'd leave through the window to minimize potential casualties,” Stephanie says once she's ran a bit away. “Someone might have been in the hall.”

“Good call.” And Barbara actually means it. “Unfortunately,” she says. “We just made a bad one.”

“Yeah, I know that was stupid,” Stephanie starts.

“Not your fault. It's mine.” Oracle's supposed to be about _information_ , and she just went off with only half of it. She needs to know the whole situation when she's deploying operatives.

“Don't be so hard on yourself.”

Barbara doesn't know how to respond to that, so she doesn't. She just sticks to work. “I'm calling Cassandra to meet you,” she says. “If you're helping her on her _case_ , you should really know what she knows.” _And so should I._

 

 

* * *

 

Barbara called the meeting in the Batcave. The guys aren't there, and since the computers here are more powerful than the ones in her house, she's let it be Stephanie and her base of operations.

Cassandra and Stephanie get there about simultaneously. Stephanie as Batgirl and Cassandra as – well, the costume looks almost exactly like Batman's, so Barbara assumes she's set herself up as a new Batman, and that's who the papers were referring to.

Dick doesn't know. Barbara knows that, because she's sure that if he _had_ known before taking up the mantle himself, he would have said, “Thank God, have fun,” and immediately switched back into Nightwing.

Stephanie runs up to Cassandra when she sees her. “ _You're_ Batman?” she asks. “Or Batwoman? Which one is it?”

Cassandra takes a step back, out of Stephanie's arms' reach. She takes her cowl off, looks at Barbara, then back at Steph, and signs _Batman. Proper noun_ _s don't have genders._

Stephanie squints her eyes at Cassandra's hands. She never got as good at ASL as Bruce and Barbara. She started learning later and stopped when she left with Leslie, though she can normally hold a conversation if people repeat themselves or slow down for her.

“Uh...” Stephanie says.

“She said she's Batman,” Barbara repeats.

“Right. I was getting there. Where's your Robin?” Stephanie asks, looking around, as if someone else will materialize in the cave.

“Maybe you should explain the situation,” Barbara says. She can only get what she's guessed, based on reports of Batman in action when Dick was out of commission, and Cassandra's general air of mystery. She can't put in exactly _why_ it was something Cassandra decided to do in secret.

Cassandra sighs. She takes in a breath slowly, then says, “Can we solve the case first?”

“That's fair enough,” Barbara says. “At least, we can save this for after we've made sure everything's okay tonight. Why did you want Stephanie's help?”

“I promised,” Cassandra says. “Promised the girl I'd make sure her dad was okay.”

“Maybe you'd better start from the beginning.”

Cassandra gives the two of them the bare bones of her mission so far. She _thinks_ it's a small-time case. She doesn't _think_ she needs help. It was just a case of not being able to lead the girl to the police station and verify the safety of her father at the same time.

But Barbara figures they're here. They might as well work together. When she says so, Cassandra nods sharply and Stephanie nods hesitantly.

“Why didn't you tell anyone what you were doing?” Barbara asks as she's just generally checking on Stephanie's usual patrol routes, making sure she's not needed elsewhere. “It would have been _really_ good to know.”

Cassandra shrugs slightly. Her mouth moves a little, but no words come out.

Barbara taps open her interactive map. She has it to keep track of who's on patrol where and when. It's not incredibly efficient for Dick, since he doesn't have a tracer on his costume, because he's not her operative. She just makes a note if he calls her and tells her where he is, or of his usual patrol routes, to make sure she doesn't deploy Stephanie somewhere that's already covered.

He hasn't called in at all tonight. Not unusual. He doesn't really seem to want to ask for her help much.

“Let me tell Night – Dick,” Cassandra says. “Please.”

Barbara sighs and clicks the map shut. She wasn't _going_ to go running to Dick, as far as she's concerned, Cass doesn't need his permission for anything. She's just also certain that there's going to be some type of conflict, even if it's just surprise, when he finds out. “I won't go behind your back,” Barbara says. “But tell him soon. Just because the current situation is going to make us second-guess anyone in Batman's costume when we don't know their identity. Remember what happened a couple weeks ago?”

“Jason,” Cassandra says. Barbara isn't sure how much Cassandra actually knows about the second Robin. They never met back when he was Robin, she hadn't become Batgirl yet, and she doesn't think they've met when he was a crime lord either. She's pretty sure she only knows him by reputation. Which, up until one-and-a-half years ago, was predominantly a reputation of mourning and regrets.

“Batgirl dropped a listening device in the apartment on her way out,” Barbara says, redirecting the conversation to actual work. “I'll see if we can get anything incriminating or find out what was going on.”

“I have a tracking device on a motorcycle,” Cassandra says. She puts her cowl back up. “I'll see where that leads.”

“What about me?” Stephanie asks. “What should I do?”

Barbara glances at Cass. It wouldn't _kill_ the two of them to go out together. She knows Cassandra wants to, she seemed cautious whenever she was saying goodbye. Like she could still see all of the dangers she'd need to protect her from.

The only question is whether Stephanie would acquiesce to her presence.

“How do you feel about running the op together?” Barbara asks. “Or is that overkill?”

She intentionally leaves an easy out, so if Stephanie doesn't want to risk it, there's no hard feelings.

“It's just enough kill,” Stephanie says. She looks at Cass. “Right?”

Cassandra makes a fist and nods. “Just enough kill,” she repeats.

 

* * *

 

With Cassandra watching Stephanie's six, Barbara can let her eyes take a little break.

She knows that if she told Stephanie, she'd probably get offended. That she felt the need to look after her. But it was also her promise. You won't go out alone. After all, why should she have to?

So instead, Barbara hitches her glasses up on her forehead and just starts listening to the recordings she's got. She opens up a keypad to take notes, but just touch types. Letting her eyes rest.

First on the current case. Rewinds to the beginning. Right after Stephanie left.

_“Holy shit ----- Batgirl! The …. ! Fuck … –”_ voice number 1. Muffled, barely audible because of the distance. The conversation wasn't in the bedroom, it was in the kitchen.

Still, Barbara smiles. She wonders if Stephanie knows how much she freaked them out. Of course, them _not_ being freaked out would be better. They'd be sloppier. Make mistakes.

Hopefully panic induces the same result.

_“So, we …. low right?”_ voice number 2. Identifiable as the man who opened the door, from when she heard him speaking to Stephanie a couple minutes ago. “.... _no rush – ”_

_“Of course there's a rush, ….. You're still not o....! And why didn't you ..._ _your brat would be …..?”_

_“She …........ o work later! I didn't – ”_

Thwack! of a palm smacking flesh. Charming.

_“That's ….... f thing you tell us, Eugene! It's ….. fucking sense. You ….. your family ...involved!”_

Barbara scowls. Stupid shitty audio. There's not even a background noise, so it's not like she can fourier transform out the extra noise to get what she needs. Maybe to reduce static... ?

Family involved... with what? With... drugs? Weapon smuggling?

The gun he was handed. A hit? The prelude to gang violence?

“ _Fina … a good kid, ….... ”_

_“She ….. you! And she clearly ….. the cops! Or Batman! …. ”_

_“..... That's …... coincidence.”_

Loud static – in the form of... an exclamation? Scoff? She can't tell.

Barbara waits. She wonders if they're going to be smart criminals, or stupid ones. A smart criminal would postpone, see if they can't get any police or vigilante interest to just blow over.

A crack of the door opening. Here. Barbara pauses her recording and grabs one of the escrimas from the hidden hilts on her wheelchair's back.

Light footsteps down the stairs. It's probably just Dick, she wants to think. It's his gait. But she doesn't know what he'd be _doing_ here.

When she turns her head, unsurprisingly, it _is_ Dick. Out of costume. Why isn't he on patrol? It's only...

She checks the clock. 4:47 a.m. Huh. Time flies.

“Still camped out in the Batcave?” Dick asks. She can't tell if there's a slight disapproving tone. If he wishes she weren't.

_Don't read into things, Babs_. She nods. “Yeah. My personal computers are still... in a chaotic state. These ones are better.”

“If it's like, a money issue, I could give you some – ” Dick starts.

Barbara shakes her head. “I have my own finances, Dick.”

“Yeah, but I know all that hardware is expensive – ”

Barbara raises an eyebrow, and he cuts himself off.

“What brings you here?” she asks.

Dick walks over to one of the closets on the wall. There are _a lot_ , filled with all kinds of resources for all kinds of threats. Bruce liked to be prepared.

“Tech,” Dick says. “I need some parts.”

Barbara wheels up to him. She didn't touch _most_ of Bruce's stuff, but she did have to dig into the tech when setting up the holo-room for Dick and making Stephanie's suit. “What parts?” she asks.

“A transceiver and transmitter mostly.”

“Making some new comms?”

“Sort of,” Dick says.

Barbara smiles. “Don't 'sort of' me, Man Wonder. Let me help.” She pauses, then says, “Actually, let me help once I'm done deciphering this indecipherable audio recording. I have to make sure there's no current emergency.”

“And Stephanie?” Dick asks. “Is she still out?”

Barbara nods.

“Shouldn't you be watching her back?”

“I've got her on comms,” Barbara says. “And Cassandra's with her. She'll be fine.”

Dick relaxes a hair, and Barbara can't help but sigh. She wishes Dick _trusted_ Stephanie just a little bit more. She knows she's doing the same thing, but she can't tell if Dick is doing it because he _cares_ about her, or because he still blames her for what happened with the gang war.

“Where's Robin?” Barbara asks.

“In bed,” Dick says. “Well, most likely down in the practice room, training. But patrol's over, so I told him to get to bed.”

Barbara backs up to the Batcave computer, leaving Dick to his tech-finding mission. “The audio is shit on this, so be very, very quiet,” she says. “I'm hunting bad guys.”

 

****

 

“So,” Barbara asks, once she's cleaned up the audio as much as she can. “What's the comm for?”

“Damian.”

Of course. A good eighty percent of Dick's thoughts seem to be on Damian lately. She can't tell if it's endearing or _weird,_ but she doesn't say any of that. “Doesn't Robin already have comms?” she asks.

“It's not comms _per se_ ,” Dick says. “... Should I tell you about it?”  
His voice is perked up enough that she knows he _wants_ to tell her about it, so she nods.

“Okay,” Dick says, and leans forward slightly at the workbench where he's set himself up. “It's a comms-slash-homing signal.”

Barbara nods. “It makes sense you want a tracking device,” she says, “in case he runs off again.”

Dick shakes his head. “Not a tracking device. A homing signal.”

“What's the difference?”

He crosses his arms. “You tell me, Miss Perfect Memory.”

“You do know I have to _hear_ something to remember it, right?” She sighs. She's pretty sure she knows where he's going with this, anyway. “Emergency position-indicating radiobeacon? For SOS calls, not surveillance.”

Dick nods and takes out a little rounded plate, a little smaller than his palm, that he'd been working on. “One press will get it to our comm hub. Two to any civilian search-and-rescue receivers in range. It should transmit audio to us – but not to anyone else.”

“If you need any help,” Barbara starts.

“I'll ask you,” Dick says. “Heck, I probably _will_ need your help to get it hooked up to our comms and untraceable to anyone but us. You can do that, right?”

“My comms are unhackable,” Barbara says. “Well, in theory, nothing is, but I've faced off against the best this world has to offer and...” She spreads her hands, indicating her complete lack of worry.

Dick grins. “You're so modest.”

“Modesty is a conceit.”

“Conceited, I believe.”

Barbara can't help but return his smile. “You're lucky you're so cute or I wouldn't do you favors.”

“Don't forget dashing.”

“Now who's being conceited?”

He laughs, and she starts to check on the gear he's got.

It was just... _easy_ with him. Slipping into banter when they're working. It makes her wonder why they ever broke up. Or more of, broke up, got back together, then decided to take a break.

On and off again. A bit too high school. She didn't like that – she didn't like messy, or confusing. She likes to know where she stands with people.

But, she supposes, wherever she stands with Dick, they can _always_ do this. They can _always_ work together and exchange jokes or rib each other. Maybe the labels aren't constant, but that is.

Barbara quickly taps the Batcave computer and checks on Stephanie's progress – she and Cass seem to be camped outside of a warehouse. Fortunately for Cass, only her back is visible, so she can have the discussion with Dick when she wants, rather than it being forced on her now.

“So,” Barbara says, as she minimizes the camera window and spins back around to Dick. “ _Why_ a homing signal and not a tracking device?”

Dick sighs. “Well, for one, Damian would never wear it if he thought it was a tracking device.”

“You don't have to tell him.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “I'm trying to do this the right way, Babs. I'm trying to dust off the old non-eidetic memory and think of what I would have wanted when I was Robin. And being tracked against my knowledge isn't it.”

Barbara nods. Dick's right, of course. She wouldn't give her operatives a tracking device without letting them know what it is. But her operatives were also all, you know, adults. She's not sure any ten or eleven-year-old is going to know what's best for them, so she's not sure going off of 17 year old memories is going to work. After all, when she was ten all she wanted to do was sit in her room reading magazines and playing with action figures, not studying. Not really what was best for her.

Dick continues, obviously oblivious to her internal dilemma: “I figure... I don't know, if he's got a way to call for a rescue that we trust him with, that's entirely in his hands, he won't feel bad about needing it. Maybe we can preempt the need to go off alone again.”

“That sounds like it could work,” Barbara says carefully. She doesn't want to make Dick second-guess himself on Damian. Partly because he's clearly trying as hard as he can, and partly because if she does, he might ask her for advice and she has no clue what she would do, only what she _wouldn't_ do. “You're disguising it as something, right? So it doesn't get found if he gets caught?”

Dick holds up a little metal _R_ he had carved. “A new Robin patch. After Damian ditched the old one. Dramatically. You know. 'You're not my real dad',” Dick says, and mimes chucking something at the floor.

“Hm,” Barbara says, and tries to turn the corner of her mouth into a smile. She's not sure it worked.

“'Hm'?” Dick asks.

“Nothing, it just sounds frustrating,” Barbara says. But she's sure Dick doesn't want to dwell on frustrations, since he seemed genuinely excited about this patch idea. So she says, “So you've clearly got that situation under control...”

“I hope so.”

“And Stephanie's off patrol...”

Dick throws a glance around the cave. “Uh, that's moving kind of fast, Babs.”

Barbara rubs her forehead. She's not sure whether Dick was joking or not, so she clarifies. “I wasn't propositioning you for sex! I wanted to talk about something in private!”

“Hey, you never know.” Dick grins. “As far as I knew, it was some 'the kids are asleep, let's make the most of it' thing.”

Barbara grimaces slightly at the awkward analogy. “You have too many parent friends on Facebook. No. I figured... there's no fires to put out right now... I mean, I set my thing to beep me at the first new noise...”

“You don't have to justify taking ten minutes to talk, Babs,” Dick says. “You can just... do it.”

Barbara sighs. She wishes it felt that easy, and she knows that if Dick hadn't gotten off patrol, he'd feel the same way she did. Feeling like he has to justify not being one-hundred percent on the case. She supposes the downside of sitting back here, with all of this information at her finger tips, is that she could hypothetically be working on a case literally all the time.

“So, I figure a date's in order,” Barbara says. “You, me, a nice restaurant. A walk around town. Something romantic.”

Dick's smile widens.

She'll confess, she loves having that effect on him. Even if she's not quite sure why he's smiling yet.

“You make it sound like a mission report,” Dick says.

She chuckles. “That's so you know it's important.”

Dick gives her a lazy, two fingered salute. “I'll be there,” he says. “Seventeen hundred, Friday night.”

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Get some sleep, Dork Knight.”

He leans in quickly, tilts her chin up, and steals a kiss. She wraps her arms around his neck and brings him in deeper. Only after a good four seconds does she let go. God, she missed that. She missed a lot of things about him.

Dick pulls back, breathing a little heavily. “It's a deal,” he says. “Oh, and by the way, Babs?”

“Yeah?”

“You were _totally_ saving that Dork Knight thing, weren't you?”

 

* * *

 

Barbara's about to leave and call it a night when she receives a ding from the listening device Stephanie dropped.

Noise in the bedroom. Again.

She puts on her headphones and prepares to listen as hard as she can, but now, the sound comes in clearer. Closer. Someone in the same room.

_The door slams shut._

_“Fuck!”_

She recognizes the voice. Voice 2 from the recording. She thinks it was Fina's father.

_Footsteps pacing antsily across the floor. To and fro, louder and softer as he comes closer to the listening device and then goes away again._

_“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”_

Well, he certainly knows that word, she'll give him that.

_The_ crunch _of something breaking. Not ceramic. Almost sounds like plaster or plywood._

Barbara tries to create the scene in her mind. Stephanie was only in the bedroom for a split second, so Barbara didn't see much. Though –

She did start recording on her helmet. She starts to dig those up and project them while listening.

_More slamming and crunching noises. Then a sob._

His voice? She hadn't heard anyone else in the room. But she hates not having visuals. She needs to know whether she should be deploying someone to stop a tragedy or waiting to get intel.

_A ragged breath. Another sob. The man's voice, choked by tears: “Why?”_

_“Why? Fina? Why?”_

He curses again.

Still all his voice. Still no indication of anyone else in the room.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk_.

More thudding noises.

More swearing.

But the man's voice seems less urgent now. He's winding down?

Maybe it was just a freak out.

_A long sigh on the man's part. Silence for a bit._

As he stops freaking out, Barbara can let her breathing relax slightly. She knows something happened, but she doesn't know what. She just starts to open up a list and catalogue everything they've learned today, and –

Shit. Work.

She's going to get fired if she pulls too many of these, but she figures that she's usually good enough at compartmentalizing her time that she doesn't need to stay up this late. So she lets herself send an email explaining she's sick and takes the elevator back up to the manor, where she can make herself some really _strong_ coffee and continue Cassandra's case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely, Stephanie is joining this fic. 
> 
> And slowly but surely, the Dick Grayson/Barbara Gordon tag at the top is becoming actually relevant.
> 
> The patch that Dick describes (the new Robin patch) is the same one we see Damian use in Batman and Robin (2011) when he is with Nobody. I don't think there was a canon explanation for the swap between one kind of patch and the other, probably just the writers choosing what to change and what to keep, but I figured we could put one here. And we can see that Dick is really trying to make Damian comfortable, even if he doesn't always succeed.
> 
> Misc notes:
> 
> The fourier transform thing isn't super researched it's just me attempting to guess (what I've seen the characters do in other stuff?) how they fix up the audio. If there is an actual... physics person who studies audio and I've let you down with this, I'm sorry :C 
> 
> (same for the transceiver and transmitter. I googled basically what a radio has in it but it might just come across as too vague or undefined for someone who actually knows about this field).


	21. Father's Day Pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and Batgirl continue their investigation to protect a teenager in danger.

It is... refreshing, running side by side with Batgirl.

It makes her wonder why she didn't tell anyone earlier. Why she kept it a secret. Was she ashamed? She didn't think so, she thinks he'd approve of what she's doing. But maybe...

Maybe she thinks the others wouldn't.

They –

It's... hard to tell what Robin would think. He told her that he never wanted to take over for him, for Batman, but he's been acting different. Since Spoiler... “died”. Since his father died. And now Batman... also died. He's harder. He feels like he has to be. Maybe he's right.

Oracle –

Barbara trusted her. She thinks. Barbara wanted to protect her, and sometimes that felt good – sometimes having someone watch your back even when you don't think it needs watching is a comfort.

When she was younger, of course, it just came across as _condescending_.

She has no clue what Nightwing would think. Which is why she hasn't brought it up with him. They've only ever worked together professionally, really. Sure, they've met off duty. But almost always while Oracle or Robin or Batman was there.

She does remember him breaking Barbara's heart, though. She hopes it's not _too_ petty that that makes her like him slightly less.

“Do you have a Batcycle?” Batgirl asks as they're swinging from rooftop to rooftop.

Batman shakes her head. She never felt the need to get one, even though she did sort of learn how to drive eventually. Besides, this is fast enough.

“I have one,” Batgirl says. “You can ride on the back. If you want.”

Batman shakes her head again, then, after realizing Batgirl might not even be able to see the motion with how dark it is and how far away they are, says, “This is better, anyway. We might have to sneak up.”

“We need stealth motorcycles,” Batgirl says.

Batman smiles slightly. She checks the receiver of her tracking device. They're close.

“What do you think they're doing?” Batgirl asks.

“Hopefully, talking bluntly about crime,” Batman says. But she knows they won't be so lucky.

Batgirl snorts.

The two of them land on top of a warehouse. Down by the docks. The motorcycle is parked outside a building straight across from them. Another warehouse. Abandoned. Broken windows. But there's still boxes inside. Someone's still using it for _something_.

Also inside: a lantern casting a light. Outside, only the barest glimpse of light is peaking up above the horizon. If it weren't for the fact that the light is coming from east over the sea, it'd just seem like ambient light from the city.

Without nightvision goggles, Batman wonders how much Batgirl can see.

Inside, the men start to talk. They're too far away to hear clearly. Batman shoots a rope to the building across the roof, to get closer, and Batgirl follows her.

Batman peaks around the roof, looking for any security features like cameras or booby traps, but doesn't see any. She then scurries across the roof to the other side, checks and sees if anyone is down below, and once she verifies the way is clear, drops down.

Again, Batgirl is right behind her.

The each flatten themselves against the outer wall of the warehouse, trying to be as invisible as possible. Still, no one is outside, so Batman peaks around the corner. Slowly making her way inside, so she can hear better.

The voices come clearer now:

“-- Like I told you. It's just us.”

“Well we just got a call back from Michael. He said the _Bat_ showed up after you left.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Wasn't the entire _point_ of running this thing through Eugene to avoid taking the heat?”

 _Taking the heat for what? Batman_ wants to say. _Come on, just a little bit more information..._

“It's not my fault his freakin' kid got involved!”

“How much does she know?”

“Heck if I know. Nothing, probably! Other than it looked bad. This idiot – ” (brief pause) “-- acted like he was gonna shoot her!”

Beside her, Batgirl shifts ever so slightly. She wants to jump in. She's waiting, but she wants to do _something_. Batman can't blame her. She feels the same way.

“But she's got nothing to go on?”

“I don't know, man, I don't know how long she was listening!”

There's the pace of footsteps inside. Someone moving. Batman can't help but redistribute her weight, preparing for combat, even though she doesn't hear them coming towards her.

“Uh, boss?” the same guy who talked earlier says. “You gonna – ”

“Shut up,” the boss says. “I have a plan.”

Batman strains to listen. Maybe the sound of a phone dialing –

“Caruso,” the boss barks. “Listen up. The terms of your repayment have changed. …. Yeah, shut up and listen.”

 _Can Oracle hack this without knowing what phone it is?_ Batman wonders. But she doesn't call with it. She doesn't want to miss out on the conversation, and if the answer is _no_ , she needs to know what happened to act on it.

“Right. Cancel that previous favor.”

_Say what the favor was!_

“Your current job is much easier. Just send me a text when your daughter gets home. And then leave the house for twenty-four hours.”

Batman feels her stomach drop.

Whatever this man has planned isn't good. She wants to leap into action and demand he tell her, but that wouldn't do anything. Just let him know she's on to him. She has to get evidence.

She has to send someone to protect Fina.

“No arguments!” the man shouts, and then there's a _crash_ , like he just threw his phone.

“There,” he says to his compatriots in the room with him. “Problem one solved.”

“And what about Rivera?” one of the men asks.

“You take care of it! Do I have to think of everything myself?”

“But he's a cop – ”

“So don't get caught!”

“... Yessir.”

The two men from the motorcycle exit the building, and Batman and Batgirl duck down behind the boxes just in time to avoid being spotted. They hop back on the motorcycle. Good. Still possible to track them.

Batman starts trying to mentally put an order of priority on this. Fina is top priority, obviously. Making sure the girl is safe.

She's not sure who Rivera is yet, other than evidently a police officer, and she doesn't know who these men they're investigating are. If this was a hit on some guy named Rivera –

– if that's what they wanted Fina's father to do –

– then someone should follow them and make sure they don't kill him. Which will leave either this place, and whoever is inside, investigating with no answers. There are only two of them.

Could involve Nightwing, she supposes. But she doesn't know if he's busy with another case.

Wait. Duh.

She left Fina at the police station.

All she has to do is call Oracle and tell her to have her father not let Fina out of his sight until she's ready.

It shouldn't take long.

She looks at Batgirl and hands her her tracking device. She hopes she's not making a mistake. She hopes – she hopes it goes well.

It has before. She hasn't needed her help since getting back. But she still hates the idea of splitting up.

“You want me to follow them?” Batgirl asks in a low voice.

Batman nods.

“Consider it done,” Batgirl whispers, and starts sneaking around the building the way they came, so that when she leaves, it doesn't blow Batman's hiding spot.

Batman follows her out. She needs to get further away to make the call without blowing her cover.

“Oracle,” she says softly, once she's resting on a roof a bit away. Still watching the warehouse, though. Making sure no one goes in or comes out.

“Batman,” Oracle says. Voice muffled, modified, the way it always is when she calls out on the job. “I've got a moderately concerning situation over here.”

“Fina?” Batman asks.

“How did you know?”

Batman exhales. The night has dragged on long, and she has had to talk way more than she wanted to. At least she doesn't have to do the real Batman's voice with Oracle.

“The same thing over here,” she says. “A call.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes. “Can you keep Fina at the police station?” she asks.

“... I can for at least a little. Take care of yourself.”

 _Take care?_ Does Oracle think she's off her game? Or hurt? Nothing's happening.

Still.

That's taken care of. So she can get to work.

Batman sneaks back down. She listens. Inside, no voices. Just the hum of a song on the radio.

She knows someone's still in there, though. She only saw two people leave. There were at least three. And though she can no doubt take out whoever is inside the building, the goal is to not be spotted. It's investigation, not attack.

She takes a risk. She creeps towards the open door. Ever so slowly, she leans her head close to the door frame, listening closely to see if anyone spots her –

but no one does.

She peaks inside.

Two men inside. One wide-framed. Round around the waist. Leaning his head against his right hand and tapping against the table anxiously with his left. Beside him, a thin, balding middle aged man with very pale skin. Dressed in a suit, looking over some papers.

Neither of them are paying attention to the door frame. They are both looking at the table. Reading or worrying. The room is still only dimly lit from the lantern. If she's quiet and quick, she can get inside and hide in the shadows behind some of the boxes before they see.

She takes the risk, dashing inside and stopping behind a stack of boxes.

No one moves.

She remains completely still in her hiding space, waiting for them to react, but they don't.

Right.

Time to get to work.

Working in silence is easiest for her. She's in her own language. _Home-field advantage,_ the sports people on TV would say. No need to play by someone else's rules.

Behind the boxes, her line of sight to the men is completely blocked unless she positions herself exactly right. Good. It means they can't see her.

One of the men – the wide one, she notices, when she peaks up – starts talking. With the boss's voice. He must have been the one in charge.

He says, “What's a five-letter synonym for 'aw-ry'?”

Seriously? He's doing a crossword puzzle right now? But, Batman supposes, he doesn't _have_ to be rushed. _He_ knows what's going on. It's only she who doesn't.

“... I don't know,” the skinny man says.

“Well what's the use in keeping a nerd on retainer?”

“Balancing your checkbooks?”

Batman fights the temptation to block them out, in case they drop useful information. Even though her brain is _tired_.

“Is it _aw_ -ry or a- _wry_?” the boss asks.

“A-wry.”

“Really? It looks like it should be _aw_ -ry to me.”

She can't believe she's wasting her verbals on _this_.

Batman quickly and silently moves around the back of the building. It's almost all cast in shadow, she has to switch to her goggles' nightvision mode to see.

More dusty old boxes and crates. She flips open a cardboard box, because that isn't likely to make much noise.

In the background, the two men are _still_ going on about crossword puzzles.

“Okay, what about the first mayor of Gotham?”

Batman rolls her eyes.

Inside the box is –

dolls.

Hm...

Batman takes a doll out. It's a... well, a Batman doll. About the size of a rat. Small limbs, plump body. Like a baby. It's very... cute. Like the dolls that used to decorate Oracle's computer desk.

But these are _not_ Oracle's dolls. She can't imagine why these men would have them, unless...

She takes a batarang out and slices the doll open. She starts gingerly plucking out some plush and –

There. Obviously. Inside the doll is a small baggy filled with a white powder.

She stashes it in her utility belt for evidence, then puts the doll back in the box and flips the lid shut, so if anyone comes by they won't immediately know someone was here.

She's still not entirely sure what this has to do with Fina.

The room is getting brighter. Ambient light peaking in from outside. It's getting later.

The screetch of a chair from beyond her hiding place. Batman peaks over the top of the box and watches.

The boss has stood up and is stretching his arms out, yawning. “I'm going to head back,” he says. “You doing the same?”

“Yes,” the skinny man says, and shuffles some papers.

He puts them in a briefcase and carries it with him.

Hmm.

Not ideal.

But Batman can make it work.

She'll just follow him out and steal the briefcase. She assumes it's important.

And she'll need to take it with her, anyway. She can't read very well yet. Oracle or Batgirl will have to decipher whatever's written.

Batman always got the idea that Oracle was a bit frustrated with her lack of ability to read more than a very simple text. She didn't understand. Didn't understand how blank a page was, how little there was to go off. No tone of voice, no body language. Nothing indicating meaning except dissociated text.

The men leave the building, and Batman follows them at a distance. They each go to two separate cars.

Good. Easier that way.

The boss takes off, leaving only Batman and the skinny man in the gravelly parking lot outside by the docks. The man opens the door to a sedan and puts the briefcase in the passengers seat.

He's about 20 feet away from her hiding spot.

Batman grabs a piece of gravel from right outside the door and throws it at the undercarriage of his car. There's a _tink_ noise.

The man looks around.

He does not shut his passenger side door.

Perfect.

He peaks down under the car to check the noise out.

He's still right next to the door. She might be able to get it without being seen, but she might not.

She grabs a handful of gravel.

She throws this as far as she can, past his car, all the way to the docks. A _tink tink tink_ as it bounces over the wood.

The man walks over to where he heard the noise. His back is to her. He's away from the car door.

It's hard, but possible, to move silently over gravel. She learned to be silent when she was still learning to walk.

She crouches down by the car door. The man's vision pans the area in front of him, looking for the source of the noise, but his back is to her.

She starts backing up.

“Who's there?” the man asks.

He reaches in his jacket for a gun.

Batman retreats back to the shadows.

The man holds his gun out, ready to shoot, and now starts scanning his entire surroundings. But she's already hidden. Gone.

She leaves before he gets in his car. She knows he'll freak out at seeing the case gone. But she's not sure he'll run and tell his boss about it. It depends on how much trouble he'd get in for losing it. So she might have some time to rifle through it's contents undisturbed.

Either way. It's a good place to start the investigation, to piece together exactly what is happening, and why it is. She just hopes Barbara hasn't stopped being Oracle and started her day job yet, because she knows she'll need her help.

 

** *

 

Cassandra tries to get some sleep upstairs in the manor while Oracle looks through the suitcase, after she gave her a brief summary on what happened.

She's not sure she can. She's laying on a couch she's been on, but not for long, in a house that was supposed to be home before... before a lot of things.

Looking at the paintings on the wall. Batman – Bruce, back then – and his parents. Photographs of Dick, Jason, and Tim. Dick's high school graduation. Jason in front of a three-segmented poster board at school. A close up of Tim sort of smiling, sort of not, in front of a gradient background.

One or two of her. The day she and Batman went down to the courthouse to get her adoption papers signed. Her smile is so big you can see all of her teeth and her eyes are squeezed shut. Her hand was in a fist and grabbing Batman's jacket to stop herself from flapping it up and down, she was so excited.

She guesses she feels robbed. Not of stuff. She doesn't care about the stuff in the manor. But of a chance to make it her home. Of a chance to do the stuff that families do on TV. Wake up, go down stairs, eat breakfast. Just... being the first people you each see that day. Read the newspaper, or maybe in a more recent commercial, check your phones. She doesn't know if that's something they did much. It was never her, Alfred, Robin, and Batman for more than a couple days at a time. Someone almost always had a mission. Some place to be.

She wonders what it would have been like if they got to live together more. She'd kind of be like... Robin's sister, she guesses? Since they were adopted by the same man. It might even be easier to think of him as Tim that way.

She sits up.

She can't sleep like this.

She rubs her face.

There's the _creak_ of the grandfather clock opening, and Cassandra turns around to see who it is. Stephanie. Obviously. The grandfather clock entrance to the Batcave had stairs.

Stephanie says something, but Cassandra's brain doesn't process it for a couple seconds, leaving Stephanie to repeat herself.

“ – doing okay?” she finishes.

Cassandra shakes her head. Not that she's not doing okay. But in confusion. However, she's not sure Stephanie gets that.

Stephanie walks over to the couch and sits down next to her.

Cassandra signs kind of slow, so that Stephanie can get what she's saying. _I talked a_ lot _today,_ she says.

Stephanie nods. _Sorry. Are you doing okay?_

_Yes._

_Good._

Cassandra sighs, and Stephanie sits herself back on the couch so that she's leaning her back against the armrest and has her feet resting on the cushions. Alfred would hate that, Cassandra thinks. Shoes on the couch. But she mimics her position. It's more convenient to talk that way. They're facing each other.

 _Weren't you watching two men?_ Cassandra asks.

 _They totally split up, then the guy I was following went home to sleep_ , Stephanie says. _I dropped one of Oracle's listening things there, but... I didn't know what to do. I think they won't do anything for a couple hours._

She paused a couple times in the sentences, restarting a word or two. It takes Cassandra a moment to put together what she's saying.

Stephanie yawns, then says, _Criminals, like us, are mostly nocturnal._

Cassandra smiles a little. _Don't you have school?_ she asks.

_Nope. It's Thursday. I got a Monday, Wednesday, Friday class schedule. Well with one lab science on Tuesday. But a girl needs free time._ Then, she asks,  _Are you going to sleep?_

Cassandra shakes her head. _I can't,_ she says. _Not here._

 _Yeah, this place is a bit big and empty for my tastes,_ Stephanie says. _I have no idea how rich people live like this._

Cassandra frowns slightly.

 _You're sad,_ Stephanie says.

Cassandra shrugs. She doesn't know what to say.

 _This would have been my home,_ she says finally. _If..._

Stephanie's eyebrows tilt up in the middle of her forehead and she starts to reach towards Cassandra in sympathy, but then stops. _I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by –_

Cassandra brings her legs up closer to her chest and rests her arms on top of them. Then she moves her hands to say, _It's fine._

Stephanie smiles slightly, a little hopeful. _It could still be your home, you know._

 _No._ Cassandra says. _You're right. It is too empty._

And she suddenly understands why Nightwing moved out. Being around here – it is too painful. The Batcave is fine when she can be Batman, when she's busy with work and she doesn't have to be Cassandra and think of what could have been, but trying to sleep here? It's impossible.

 _Where_ do _you live?_ Stephanie asks.

 _I have an apartment_. It's true. She had a checking account she could charge... whatever she needed on. She didn't pay attention to money. She used it to get a place set up. It doesn't have anything she wants in it. She never moved her stuff out of her room in the manor. It just feels like a place to refuel. Half the time, she doesn't bother making it there. She just crashes on Barbara's couch.

But that sounds too... depressing, so she doesn't tell Stephanie all that. Just the bit about the apartment. Otherwise, she might get worried.

Stephanie still is worried, though. She can tell. She inches slightly closer to her, reaches a hand out, and touches her knee.

Cassandra doesn't know how to reciprocate the gesture. She could grab her hand, she supposes. Hold it. But she just winds up poking the top of it, almost frozen by indecision. She's worried if she grabs Stephanie's hand, she'll just pull her into a hug and never let go.

Stephanie sits back up after a minute. All business. _Oracle told me what you told her,_ she says. _Do you really think that the dad is gonna hand his daughter over to his criminal friends?_

Cassandra shrugs. She wants to say no. She wants to believe in people.

But they can't possibly operate under the assumption that everyone they encounter will make good decisions. If they did, no one would have any need of them.

 _Do you?_ she asks Stephanie without answering the question.

Stephanie's eyebrows lower in a slight scowl. _Yes,_ she says. _I think he will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling like my criminal dialogue was so generic until I added the crossword puzzle NGL. that made me feel better about it :P 
> 
> Still unsure how the mini-plot is going but I hope it's working to hang some Steph and Cass interactions off of. I want to slowly build up to the whole Batfam in Gotham getting a plot in this fic, but I like to establish the dynamics of the characters who'd know each other better first.
> 
> I *hope* I'm right about the cass and dick interactions (when I say they were mostly professional and not super great friends), but I haven't seen them interact much so I might have missed something (I've seen them in Nightwing 1996 (she assists him with slade) Bruce Wayne murderer/fugitive (they act out a murder scenario together to find out how it could have happened), and batgirl 2008, where he was hostile to her cuz of dark cass saga (which is mostly retconned out in my verse because any writing that needs a follow up comic and mind altering drugs to explain why something OOC happened is dumb. I still did keep some of the follow up though in terms of Cass teaming up with Rose, because it was pure. But that's probably it's own meta/fic/whatever). Oh yeah they also interacted in batgirl 2000 where she chucked him through a window while on mind-altering drugs.
> 
> also, since I know a lot of people read this fic for Damian: Don't worry :P Damian will show up in next week's update


	22. Tech-nically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick attempts to help Damian deal with the emotional aftermath of having been captured by Pyg. At least, as much as the kid will *allow* him to help.

It feels extremely weird to admit this, but having Damian here is probably good for Dick.

Not like the kid can't be frustrating. But he needs a lot of stuff. He needs training. Someone to teach him right from wrong. Someone to watch him on patrol. And the fact that Damian needs so much attention means that Dick can't let himself dwell on things. Next to no downtime means next to no personal life, but he really doesn't feel like he needs much of a personal life right now. He'd be content if he can get away for one evening for his date with Barbara.

Then, of course, there's the pang of regret and wondering if that means he's not one-hundred-percent committed to this thing. If it's not something that Bruce would do.

Hmm. He guesses Damian's existence isn't an automatic anti-dwelling pill after all.

However, it is almost six, so soon they'll have training. Again. Damian's not in the apartment, meaning the light, pre-sparring snack Alfred made for him is going to waste. Dick's guessing he's down in the Batbunker.

“Why do I even bother?” Alfred asks, looking at the plate of food. It's the kind of snack food Dick would have classified as 'disgustingly healthy' when he was a kid. You know, baby carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, and then a couple pretzels. The pretzels were always the part he ate first. And sometimes, the only part he ate.

“I'll bring Damian down his snack,” Dick says. “I was just about to head there anyway.”

“There's enough for the both of you,” Alfred says.

Dick grabs a handful of pretzels and shoves them in his mouth.

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “You set a stellar example, Master Dick.”

“Moe gunk foo – ” Dick starts.

“Chew, swallow, then talk.”

Dick swallows the pretzels. His throat is all dry now. Bleh. “More junk food I eat, more veggies left for Damian,” he says. “I'm an exemplary role model.”

Alfred smiles and sighs, and Dick heads down the elevator.

As he enters the Batbunker, he hears a far-away, dull _thuck_ of rubber projectiles hitting the wall of the sparring room. Damian's training. Obviously.

Dick walks up to the holo-room and watches through the camera on the computer terminal outside.

Damian is dressed as Robin, and has set it up to spawn a gazillion opponents. A veritable mob. They're all surrounding him, like the people they fought earlier. He's weaving in and out of the fray, but there really are too many to keep track of. An occasional rubber projectile hits him on the head, _Loser: Robin_ pops up, and Damian re-starts the simulation.

If he didn't know better, Dick would wonder if Damian was traumatized from the encounter with Pyg and being captured. But he's sure in terms of Damian Life Experiences, losing the fight with Pyg's brainwashed minions ranks pretty low on the badness scale. But he's definitely _bothered_. Definitely doesn't want anything like it to happen again. Dick doesn't blame him. Any time he messed up, any time _any_ of them messed up, that always happened. Especially with Bruce. Convinced that if he somehow thought up a new plan or trained harder, he'd be able to get it _perfect_ next time.

Maybe Damian's more like his dad than Dick gave him credit for.

Dick sets the vegetable plate down on the computer console, and accesses the controls for the holo-room, getting ready to pause the simulation.

The door to the holo-room opens. Damian is scowling. “I was using that, Grayson! Don't mess with it while I'm using it!”

“You were training,” Dick says. “Let me help. Isn't that my job?”

Damian presses his lips together and recoils a hair back, cautiously. “... Very well,” he says eventually. “Get changed.”

“The exercise I have planned doesn't require Batman,” Dick says. “Just an adult of above average strength. Can I come in?”

Damian steps back to allow Dick to come into the holo-room. As Dick walks in, Damian's gaze still follows him. Still watching him, like he's expecting Dick to do something aggressive.

Dick doesn't know how to respond to it, so he doesn't. He figures he'll just start the little lesson he improvised while watching Damian. “You're practicing in a mob-like situation,” he says. “Like with the guys Pyg had.”

“They were called dollotrons,” Damian says. “And yes.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and steps a pace back away from Dick. “I'm – I'm working on tactics.” His voice is a little tight. Poor kid is a ball of stress.

But any conventional comforting would just be read as an insult by Damian, so Dick does what he figures is the nicest thing he can do, and pretends he didn't notice. “You're being prepared,” Dick says. “That's smart. It's what your dad would do. _Did_ do.”

Damian nods sharply.

“What parts the hardest for you?” Dick asks. “In the mob scenario?”

Damian clenches his hands in fists. Dick gets the idea that talking about his defeat _really_ isn't what he wanted, but if Damian's obsessing over it, he figures they _have_ to.

“If you get grabbed,” Damian says, “it slows you down. Everyone can surround you.”

“Okay,” Dick says. “We'll work on that.”

“I _know_ how to escape from a grab, Grayson!” Damian snaps.

“Yeah, but I'm going to teach you how to manage multiple opponents while someone's got you,” Dick says. “In case you _can't_ escape immediately.”

Damian purses his lips, but then nods quickly. “Very well,” he says.

“Okay.” Dick walks up behind Damian, who turns to keep his eye on him but doesn't jump away. “I'm going to grab you. Please don't stab me.”

Dick bends down, reaches his arms under Damian's armpits, and clasps his hands behind the back of Damian's head, putting him in a full nelson. The kid immediately clasps his own hands together and braces them against his forehead, to try to prevent Dick from pressing his hands down and pushing Damian's head to his belly button.

Dick stands all the way up, and Damian comes with him. He's lighter than Dick expected him to be. It barely feels like he's holding anything. He can't be more than 75 or 80 pounds.

“Okay,” Dick says. “Now we'll start the simulation.”

Damian makes a clicking noise, which Dick thinks is an... okay? He's still not quite sure how Damian uses it.

“Run simulation, three opponents, mooks,” Dick says, not sure why Barbara decided to label the non-super-villain generic combatants _mooks_ , but that's what she did. Three holograms spawn, one unarmed man, one with a club, and one with a knife. They start encroaching on Damian.

“Pause simulation,” Dick says.

Damian scoffs. “It _just started_ , Grayson!”

“I know,” Dick says. “This is a pop quiz. Who do you regard as the biggest threat right about now? Assume I'm one of those generic bad guys Babs made, not, you know, a superhero.”

Damian sighs. “Well, you're at the _extremely advantageous_ position of being right behind me,” he says. “You could grab a gun or knife and hold me hostage. Or shoot me in the head or stab me in the brainstem, killing me instantly.”

“Morbid, but not entirely inaccurate,” Dick says. “Anything else?”

A bit of silence on Damian's part. “You know, in the field,” he says after a bit, “We'd never be able to pause like this.”

“That's the point of training,” Dick says.

“Don't condescend me.”

Dick didn't even think he was being condescending that time.

Damian _does_ continue his analysis, though, even if Dick gets the idea that it's not quite how he imagines training _should_ be. “Well, I know where your hands and legs are,” Damian says. “Your hands are restraining me, your legs are holding us up. So for the moment, until I feel you move, you don't have a lot to hurt me with besides brute-forcing the hold.”

“Good,” Dick says. “And the other three men?”

“The man with the club has the longer reach,” Damian says, “But a knife can be pretty deadly. And we don't know if the last man merely hasn't _retrieved_ any weapon yet. If he has a gun, and I'm restrained like this, I'm dead.”

“Okay,” Dick says. “So when I play, what are you going to do?”

A groan from Damian. “Can't I just _show_ you?”

“I guess,” Dick says, and then to the holo-room, he says, “Play simulation.”

The hologram with the knife comes in first. Damian kicks the man's hand right under his wrist, and the knife goes flying up towards the ceiling. The man with the club comes in, and Damian uses the fact that Dick is supporting his entire weight, bringing both of his legs close to his chest, then suddenly launching them out at the man's face, kicking him with both feet. He's out of the game now, only the previously-knife-guy and unarmed man are still in.

They each approach Damian slower. He kicks at them, but they back up. Then they each start approaching from 45 degree angles, making it so he can't commit fully to either one.

Now that the weapons are disarmed, Damian tries to escape Dick's grab. He presses backwards with his head, preparing to brace himself against Dick's forward pressure on the full nelson, and then with his right hand, grabs Dick's pinkie and ring finger. He starts to yank on them, but then stops suddenly. Probably stopped himself from breaking Dick's fingers _for real_.

Dick acts like he did though, loosening up the hold, so Damian hops out of his arms and dodges behind him, putting Dick between him and the attackers.

“Good work,” Dick says. “You want another go? More attackers, less pausing?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Damian says. And the two of them get to work.

 

* * *

 

After the training, Damian doesn't bother changing back into civvies. He just takes off his domino mask and starts nibbling unenthusiastically at the vegetable plate Alfred prepared. The two of them are seated on the bench in front of the lockers, side by side, but with a good foot and a half of distance between them. The plate is in that space.

“What did you do?” Damian asks. “Back when you were Robin and you got surrounded like that?”

“Well, when I started being Robin, I wasn't the fighter you are,” Dick says.

“ _Tt._ I know.”

“But I was _really_ mobile,” Dick adds. “I had like six months of fighting experience but over nine years of acrobatics.”

“Nine years?” Damian asks. “You started early. Earlier than most civilians do, I mean.”

Dick pauses. He hadn't considered the fact that Damian considered _him_ a civilian, at least before he was Robin.

“Since I could walk,” Dick explains after the pause. “I guess I remember _remembering_ it more than I remember the actual thing, but when I know when I was just two, my dad would set up a little bar at my head height and I'd try to swing on it or hang from it even though two-year-olds have no upper body strength. I still did hang on a bit, though.”

Damian frowns. “What does 'I remember _remembering'_ even mean?”

“You know, like watching it in a family video or your parents telling you about it afterwards,” Dick says. “You don't actually remember much, if anything, from when you're that young.”

Dick wonders if this would be a good opportunity to talk about some stuff they haven't talked about before, about exactly what Damian's childhood was _like_ besides whatever horrifying scenarios fill in the blanks in Dick's mind. Obviously it was rough enough he considered kid-Dick a civilian, but not himself. So Dick says, “What's the earliest thing you remember?”

“I don't know,” Damian says quickly.

Too quickly for Dick to think he _actually_ can't doesn't know, but he's not going to press the topic.

“Your father was in charge of your training?” Damian asks.

Dick nods. “Well, both my parents. But my dad had the same upbringing in the circus, so he knew more of how you'd do it for a little kid. Even if he was probably just remembering whatever his parents told him.”

Damian starts flicking one of the carrot pieces across the plate, then stops when he notices Dick watching him. “So it was a familiar obligation?” Damian asks.

Dick frowns. _Obligation_ is a weird way to phrase it. “It was more like... a tradition,” Dick says. “There wouldn't have been any penalty for opting out.”

Damian narrows his eyes slightly. “You wouldn't have felt like you're letting your family down for leaving?”

Dick sighs. He's guessing that Damian's genuinely trying to relate to him. To find a common thread in their childhoods. “Is that how you felt?” Dick asks. “If you ever wanted something more – ?”

“Don't _insult_ me, Grayson!” Damian says suddenly, and jumps to his feet. “We're talking about _your_ asinine upbringing in some children's entertainment festival, not mine!”

_If you really thought it was unimportant and asinine, you wouldn't be asking about it in the first place_ , Dick thinks. But he doesn't say that.

Damian starts to stomp away, and Dick says, “Wait. I never answered your question.”

Damian turns back to face him, crosses his arms, and watches him. Still with his eyes slightly narrowed, knees slightly bent. On guard. But he does wait. He does want an answer. Even if he's acting like he doesn't.

Dick rubs the back of his neck. He wishes he had an answer that Damian would actually like. But he doesn't. He just goes with the truth. “Thinking about letting my folks down didn't cross my mind,” Dick says, “because it didn't feel like an obligation for me. It felt like... I don't know, I guess having a kid along was probably good for marketing gimmicks or whatever, but for the most part, it was just genuinely fun.”

“ _Tt._ 'Fun',” Damian says.

Dick wonders if it's possible to get Damian to genuinely have fun. He tried with the basketball thing, but Damian just thought it was some type of assassin or superhero exercise, and when he found out that it was a game for kids, he seemed... sad. Dick doesn't know how anyone could raise a kid with no clue of the concept of fun, and he has no clue how to... undo any of that.

“I'm not an idiot,” Damian says. His voice is even more clipped and tense than it'd been this entire interaction.

“What do you mean?”

Damian exhales sharply. “When you and Pennyworth do that... thing.” He waves an open hand in front of his face, gesturing at it. “You're... you're... I don't know what you're feeling, but it's not appropriate.”

The word he's grappling for is _sorry,_ Dick thinks. They're _sorry_ for him. But he has no clue where to go from there. He wonders if Damian _prefers_ it when he just brushes off whatever horrible thing he hears about. When he tells him they have to use holograms because they're running low on expendable ninja fanatics, or just a quick comment about his childhood having more stabbing and less sharing than everyone else's. If Dick just brushes it off, maybe Damian has to think about it less. Maybe thinking about it is too painful.

And Dick's not a shrink, so he _really_ has no clue whatever you're _actually_ supposed to do in this situation. He's been assuming the best way to go about it was to try to treat Damian like how _he_ would have like to been treated, but that's part of the reason he's just... emoting as normal when he's talking to Damian. Not trying to hide it. Because _he_ hated it when Bruce seemed cold or impassive or he couldn't tell what he was thinking. But obviously, that's ticking off Damian.

Dick carefully lowers his eyebrows and tries to put on a more serious expression. “You're right,” he says. “It's not appropriate.”

Damian narrows his eyes again skeptically.

“You know what _is_ appropriate?” Dick asks. “Helping me bounce ideas off of this new tech idea I have. You have a pretty thorough tech education, right?”

Damian seems to loosen up just a smidgen and rolls his eyes. “You'll have to be more specific than 'tech', Grayson. A _lot_ of things count as technology. Technically, a _lever_ is technology.”

“Tech-nically,” Dick says.

“I can stab you.”

Dick smiles. “You got the Batmobile working, right?”

“ _Tt._ Show me your plans.”

Dick walks over to this bag and retrieves the pieces of the Robin patch he got from the Batcave. He figures he'll pretend he was intending on making a matching device for himself all along, even though he _wasn't_ , just because Damian would probably be less offended if that's the case. “So,” Dick says, “I figure a lot of gadgetry and stuff is important in case worst comes to worse...”

“Preparing,” Damian says. “Smart. Go on.”

Dick does, and as he does, slowly, the tension keeps seeping out of Damian's stance until he finally returns to normal. And Dick can hope that he did at least one thing right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misc notes:
> 
> Am I the only one whose mom made those weird vegetable trays? God they were so bland. I am in Dick's corner all the way. Just eat the pretzels. 
> 
> Whenever I have the characters talk about fighting, I am always so self conscious that someone who actually knows how to fight will realize it's full of shit. So I guess the question isn't whether the analysis Damian gives Dick is right, but just whether it *sounds* right :P 
> 
> Just for heads up: not quite sure next chapter will go up exactly in 1 week. I'm having a bit trouble ending the Father's Day plotline with Cass and Steph. I wrote one ending but it came across as kind of lackluster, so I might have to re-write it a couple times to get it good.


	23. Father's Day Pt 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephanie and Cassandra help protect Fina, then the two talk about why Stephanie left Gotham.

Being back is so _weird_.

It's kind of like no one wants to admit that Stephanie ever left. Tim and Batman freaked out a little, but after that she could keep working with Robin _almost_ like nothing happened. Batman insisted he always knew, but Stephanie's not sure how much she believes it.

Someone must have told Cass before they met, because she didn't freak out, she just pulled her into a long hug. Barbara –

Honestly, she didn't know Barbara that well before she left. They'd met occasionally, but more often through Cass or one of Barbara's friends – she'd hung out with Black Canary a little while Bruce was in jail, and they'd teamed up once or twice when she was Robin. But she always got the idea that Barbara was more focused on Cass or her independent operatives. Stephanie had asked about them, but Barbara said that for the purpose right now, they're 'not in the picture'.

She kind of hopes that doesn't mean they  _died_ , but she also didn't hear anything about Black Canary dying, so they're probably safe.

And now its just – like old times.

Except not exactly, because Batman isn't here and Stephanie's here as a player on her own, not only included because the Big Bad Bat finally acquiesced to her presence for about two weeks.

Barbara has put together the information that Cass and Steph have got so far, and from the briefcase Cass brought in. She referred to it in two sections: _Facts_ and _conjecture_.

Facts: Eugene Caruso owes about twenty thousand dollars to a small-time drug dealer called David Harrison. Harrison occasionally contracted for more dangerous criminals, like Lazlo Valentin, the head of the Cirque d'Etrange that the other Batman and his new Robin just brought down.

It was that that brought him to the attention of rookie GCPD officer Daniel Rivera. He was investigating Valentin's assets and stumbled upon Harrison. And, if the notes that Cass recovered are anything to go by, he was getting pretty close.

Conjecture: Harrison probably asked Caruso to assassinate Rivera for him to cancel the debt. It fits what Fina overheard, and the “dealing with Rivera” bit.

But now there's a new deal, and it seems to deal with Caruso's seventeen-year-old daughter, Serafina. Babs suggested that Harrison was just going to make her disappear. It's not anything anyone would investigate too closely, Stephanie thinks. Mom out of the picture, Dad in debt to criminal scumbags and associating with them for work, poor, living in “the bad part of town”. People might just assume she ran away. People don't always look too closely at girls like that.

So Barbara starts her cyber-stalking on Rivera to find out when he's most likely to be vulnerable and assassinatable and calls in an anonymous tip to the GCPD to report the drugs Cass found at the warehouse. Cass suggests that she and Stephanie keep an eye on Fina as she goes home. It will be harder to be unseen during the day. There won't be many shadows to hide in. It's for this reason that Stephanie suggests just... going as civilians.

They start to get changed out of their costumes, and Cass finally speaks out loud. Stephanie guesses she had enough time to decompress.

“If Fina notices us following her,” Cass says, “Won't she freak out?”

“Probably,” Stephanie says. She holds the hoodie she was wearing yesterday up to her face and sniffs it. “Ugh, I should have brought a change of clothing. We're gonna reek.”

“You can wear my clothes,” Cass suggests.

And Stephanie guesses that Cass probably does have a wardrobe here. She said she used to live here, after all.

They make their way up the staircase of the Batcave and into the main section of the manor. Stephanie's still a little surprised that she's allowed to be here. Batman seemed really possessive of his secret identity – though he did let _Tim's_ slip, without his permission, of course.

And just as last time, the manor is completely enormous. She never really thought she'd have an opportunity to use _opulent_ outside of eighth-grade vocab lessons, but here it was. The place was just opulent as hell.

Cass takes them up the wide-open staircase to the second floor, and then to her room. It seems a lot more normal, thankfully. There's some picture books on her desk, which is weird, because Stephanie thought Cass said she _couldn't_ read – though maybe she's just not very good at it? An mp3 on the desk. Some posters from movies on the walls – _Star Wars, Alien, Power Rangers_. A fidget spinner right on the corner of her desk. Stephanie walks up and spins it around in her hands.

“I didn't know you were into these,” Stephanie says.

Cassandra walks up, grabs it out of her hands, and sets it back down. She's frowning slightly. “It was a gift,” she says. “From Bat – Bruce. He took it home from a meeting.”

Stephanie nods. She still had a hard time imagining Batman bringing home goodie-bags for his... kids, she guesses? Though she had a hard time imagining _any_ dad doing that. It seemed like the thing that happened more in stories. You know, like in Cinderella, where the dad promised to bring his neat souvenirs from a fair and all Cinderella wanted was a twig.

Cassandra walks over to her closet now and starts rummaging through it. Stephanie hops up right behind her, looking for something to wear.

Cass has... honestly, nicer clothes than she does. Lots of it is just black jeans or simple shirts, but they're all brand-name. And there's a...

She reaches in and pulls out a simple, knee-length black dress and holds it up to Cass. “What's this for?”

Cassandra shrugs. “Alfred bought it,” she says.

“The butler?”

Cassandra nods.

Stephanie hangs the dress back up. She really can't tell if she's intruding.

Cass yanks her shirt off and starts getting changed while she's still there. Stephanie quickly averts her eyes and grabs the first two garments her hands touch from the closet. “I'll, uh, leave,” she says. “So you can preserve your modesty.”

She guesses it's not anything the two of them haven't seen in the changing room at a gym, but it still _feels_ like something she should do. And she's not sure Cass goes to public gyms, anyway.

But Cass doesn't react verbally, and since Steph has already turned her back, she doesn't know what she does say.

Cass's outfit is a little loose around the shoulders and a little tight around the hips for Stephanie, but it works. It makes her look like a normal person who doesn't smell like a locker-room. And the two of them can just take the car to the police station, where Fina is.

Or, she guesses she should say, the cars. Because when they get to the garage, there's a metric crapton of them. She doesn't know why anyone needs more than one, or maybe two if they feel really fancy (one nice sports car, obviously, she's not immune to shininess, and one for practical stuff, like driving in bad conditions or moving furniture).

She scans the area for the most modest-looking car she can find, since they're supposed to be subtle. She finds a plain white sedan and plops the suitcase that has her batsuit in the trunk. Cass does likewise. Stephanie hops in the drivers seat and adjusts the mirrors. “Hope no one pulls us over,” she says. “Someone might think we stole it. We're not even on the registration.”

Cassandra shrugs noncommittally. At least, Stephanie _thinks_ it's intended to be a non-committal shrug. Sometimes Cass doesn't bother saying what she's thinking, and Stephanie just has to guess at it.

The two of them make it down to the police station and park a bit away to not look _too_ suspicious, and Cass just gets out of the car and leans against the side or it. Stephanie gets out and leans right next to her.

“If we have to fight,” Cass says in a low voice, “Leave it to me.”

Stephanie frowns. She thought Cass _trusted_ her after all this. She thought she was going to give her a chance to prove herself – or maybe she's just ticked it ever felt like it was something she _needed_ to prove. “I can fight,” she says.

“Yes, but you have...” Cass trails off while she looks for a word. “An identity. I don't. Not really.”

And Stephanie can't help but frown again, because that _sounds_ really, really lonely. She liked being Spoiler, she liked being Robin, and she likes being Batgirl. But she can't imagine that being the _only_ thing going on in her life. “Do you _want_ an 'identity'?” she asks.

Cassandra shrugs again. “Is it worth it?”

“ _Obviously_. I mean, you can't be 'on' one-hundred-percent of the time.” Though she guesses sometimes people like to _act_ like they can. Cass might be one of those people. Stephanie saw her training set-up, how much she did, how many freaking dummies she demolished each time.

Cassandra sighs a little. Before Stephanie can find out if she'll say anything more, Cass snaps her head to look at the police station.

The door just opened. A girl is coming out, and Cass whispers, “That's Fina.”

Stephanie tries to strain to hear whatever's going on, but she can't. They're too far away. Fina _looks_ kind of ticked at the cop who was escorting her out, and eventually she _huffs_ and starts walking over to a bus stop sign.

Stephanie doesn't know where Fina's going. She'd assume not back home – though maybe Fina doesn't have any other option. She remembers feeling like she had no other option but going back to a shitty home, with a dad it felt like didn't give a damn about her. Though she guesses Fina doesn't _know_ her dad might leave her for people who want her dead. No one told her about the phone call.

…

They really _should,_ though.

Cass grabs something from her pocket, and Stephanie tries to peek over to see what it is. “A tracking device,” Cassandra explains. “In case we lose her.”

Stephanie sighs. She's pretty sure it'd be easier to just _tell_ Fina what's going on, but they can't really do that without blowing their secret identities. She guesses they can just follow her to a quiet place, change into costume, and tell her then.

Which might feel just a wincy bit stalker-ish.

Cass goes off to plant a tracker, and Stephanie just pans the crowd for potential threats. It's hard with so many people around. It's early in the morning. Everyone's going to work.

The bus comes, and Fina gets on and Cass doesn't come back. After about thirty seconds, she says over comms, “I'm on the bus. Follow in the car.”

Stephanie sighs, but does so.

After a bit – bus rides _always_ take longer than just driving there – the bus stops in Fina's neighborhood and unfortunately, Fina decides to get off.

It's time for Stephanie to become Batgirl, in that case. She takes the suit out of the trunk and peaks around for a quiet place to change. It's not easy. It's a residential area, so most of everyone's at work, but still – she doesn't know how many people are looking out their windows. Probably why Batgirl works at _night_ and gets changed before entering public, usually.

Eventually, she decides to chance it in an alleyway. She looks up, tries to see if any blinds are open, and crouches down by a dumpster to change.

Not really the most glamorous way to go about this superhero gig, but she wants to actually be able to break the news, rather than just following around and waiting for something bad to happen.

“I'm going to up by the window,” Stephanie says. “Tell me if anyone's in the apartment.”

And she shoots a grapple up and pulls herself up by the window she busted through just a couple hours ago.

“Are you Batgirl?” Barbara asks over comms. “In broad daylight?”

“Yes,” Stephanie whispers.

A pause on Barbara's end, and Stephanie can just _imagine_ her rubbing her forehead in consternation. At least she's not getting the judgmental sigh. “Just don't let Fina see you, if you're tailing her,” Barbara says eventually.

Well, no one really plans on _letting_ people see them, do they?

“I'm outside the apartment door,” Cassandra whispers, barely audible. “I followed in civilian clothing.”

“I don't like how little you're protecting your identity,” Barbara says.

“I'm neither distinctive nor famous,” Cass says. “I'm wearing big sunglasses. And I won't do anything attention grabbing.”

Stephanie hopes she's right, but she really can't _make_ Cass care about a secret identity she doesn't seem to identify at all with. And besides, let she who doesn't get changed near dumpsters in daylight cast the first stone. It's not as if she was being super careful today, either.

Stephanie finishes grappling up. As she reaches the window, Stephanie can hear Fina and her dad talking – not hard, since the thing is open, due to it's brokenness.

“ – the hell did you run off last night, Fina?”

“I don't know, Dad, why did you have _weirdos_ with _guns_ in our apartment?!”

Already, Stephanie doesn't like this. He didn't even seem a little bit concerned, no “are you okay”, no “I'm sorry I scared you.” Just straight to aggressiveness.

“Having guns isn't a crime, Fina!” Fina's father says. “This is America.”

“I'm not an idiot, I know they were from that skeevy bar you work at!”

“Yes! The bar _I_ work at! Because _I_ pay the rent and it's my damn house and I can have whoever I want here. You don't like it, there's the door!”

“Ugh! I don't even know why I came back!”

“Then leave!”

A deep groan on Fina's part, but she doesn't leave the apartment. There's just footsteps as she enters another room and then a door slamming.

Barbara sighs heavily, but this time, it doesn't seem to be _at_ anyone. “Caruso just sent a text. 'She's here.'”

Stephanie presses her lips into a thin line. There's another sound of a door opening and closing, and Stephanie risks peaking one eye over the side of the windowsill to see what's going on.

It _looks_ like no one is in the main room of the apartment. There's just the kitchen table and some splinters no one swept up from after the gun battle.

There's some words spoken from beyond the front door, outside the apartment, but Stephanie can't make them all out. Cass's voice, she thinks. And Fina's dad.

So... he left?

Her question is confirmed when, after about a minute, Cass says, “Caruso's gone.”

“That's my cue,” Stephanie says. “Fina's alone in there. Don't you think we should _tell_ her her dad might have sent someone to kill her?”

“No,” Barbara says, in a slightly scolding tone. Letting her know she doesn't want the topic to be debated. “You're on top of it. You don't want her to freak out and run. In case we lose sight of her.”

“I think I'd have liked to know,” Stephanie says. “If it was me.”

“It's _not_ you, though.”

“I'm going in,” Stephanie says. Besides, even if she was going to ignore the part where she _feels_ like she should tell Fina because of what she'd want, she still can't protect anyone while hanging on the outside of a window.

Stephanie crawls through the window. The thick padding on her gloves and boots protect her from the shards of glass.

The bedroom door creaks open. Fina's there. And freaked out. Once she sees her, at least: “Is someone there – aaaah!”

Fina's just staring at her.

Stephanie holds her hands out, attempting to look non-threatening. “Shh, it's cool,” she says, and points at her cowl. “Batman sent me, see? Bat-mask.”

“Where _is_ Batman?” Fina asks.

Hm, well she can't say _around_ because that might reveal Cass, so she just says, “On another case. But he told me what's going on.”

Fina crosses her arms and watches Stephanie skeptically.

Stephanie sighs. Even though she knows Cass has the front door, she's still a little nervous, not being able to see who's coming and going. Someone could just shoot them – there aren't any blinds or curtains on the window.

“You, uh, got another place to be?” Stephanie asks, checking for any hiding spots. “Another room, maybe...?”

“What's this about?”

Stephanie sighs. She doesn't want to scare her, but she doesn't want to beat around the bush either. She swallows, and says, “... Some scumbags your dad works with might be on their way here.”

At first, Fina just looks blank. “What?” she asks.

Stephanie cringes. She wishes she had a nicer way to say this but she doesn't think there's a _nice_ way for anyone to find out their dad doesn't consider them important in comparison to whatever illegal activities he's got going on. “We think somebody might want you 'out of the way'. Because of what you saw earlier.”

Fina's eyebrows pitch up in the middle in worry and she blinks rapidly, and for a moment, Stephanie thinks she's going to cry, but then her hands clench in fists and shake and she wheels and punches the wall behind her and says, “God _DAMMIT!”_

Her fist goes straight through the drywall.

She starts kicking the wall rapidly from the knee, like she's wailing at a soccer ball.

“Damn! Damn! Damn – !”

Stephanie walks up to her. She puts a hand on Fina's shoulder and Fina spins with her hand raised in a fist and she throws a punch at Steph's chest. Stephanie just rotates so it slides off the side, she doesn't bother to block it fully.

“What's going on?” Cassandra asks over comms.

Fina brings down another fist on Stephanie, but it's just a hammerfist at her shoulder. It seems more like she's hitting something in anger rather than trying to attack her.

“I'm sorry,” Stephanie says. She doesn't know what to do – she already tried to comfort Fina physically and got punched for it, so she's pretty sure that trying again won't help.

Fina tries to grab Stephanie's lapels, but the Batgirl costume doesn't have any, so it's just like she's clutching at her armored chestplate. But at least she's not trying to punch her anymore. She's breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating, her eyes are wide and tears are pouring freely from them.

Stephanie holds her hands up at armpit height, but without offering them out. Just in case Fina needs something to grab onto –

and she _does_ and she grabs Stephanie's hands and seems to almost wilt. Stephanie helps hold her up.

“I'm sorry,” Stephanie says again. She wishes she could say more. Like _I know what you're going through_. But she guesses secret identities make that difficult, and even if they didn't, she's not sure Fina would believe her.

Stephanie helps walk Fina over to the bathroom, now that she's holding onto her, so that they won't be within the window sight or right behind the front door in case someone decides to shoot through it. Fina sits down on the side of the tub and starts frantically rubbing at her eyes and nose, wiping away tears and snot.

“I'll get a cup of water,” Stephanie says, because well... it's what always wound _her_ down when she got like this. You can't cry and drink water at the same time, and it kind of forces you to breath slower.

As she leaves the restroom, she answers Cassandra's question: “Fina got upset when she heard about her dad. Obviously.”

“Which is why I was in favor of _not_ telling her,” Barbara says. “Not until the danger's passed.”

Stephanie sighs. She grabs one of those red solo cups that seem to spawn in kitchens and fills it with some tap water, and brings that and a roll of paper towels back to the bathroom. But Fina's already beat her to it – she's blowing her nose on a roll of toilet paper and throwing the garbage on the floor.

Stephanie hands over the cup of water and Fina starts drinking it quickly.

“We'll protect you,” Stephanie says as Fina's silent while drinking.

Fina presses her lips together and glowers at the floor. “I don't _want_ you to protect me,” she says. “I mean, I don't want _you_ to protect me. I want … ”

Stephanie already knows how she'll finish that. She wants her dad to protect her. To have been willing to do it, or barring that, to not make things worse for her.

“I know,” Stephanie says. “But I'm not going anywhere.”

“Be prepared,” Cassandra says over comms. “Someone just parked in front.”

“And they are... a threat?” Stephanie says.

“Who are you talking to?” Fina asks.

“I don't know yet” – Cassandra.

“My co-patriots,” Stephanie says. “The Bat Hive-Mind. Or whatever you wanna call them.”

“My assessment is _definitely_ that there is a threat,” Cassandra says again. Still slightly quiet. “Two men, guns. This hall.”

Stephanie grimaces. She wishes they had more time. To Fina, she says, “Can you get in the tub and wait for this to be over?”

Fina's face pinches slightly at the request, Stephanie gets the idea she doesn't like it. But she still says “Fine.”

Stephanie backs out and starts to shut the bathroom door, but Fina says, “Leave it. I want to see if my dad bothered to show his face.”

Which is a perfectly reasonable request, but if someone's here to _kill_ her, Stephanie would rather Fina not be immediately visible. “I'll open it the instant the fighting's done,” she says, and shuts the door as she backs out.

 _Fortunately_ she doesn't hear any noises to her back. Fina must be staying in place.

Outside, she can hear Cass's voice answering a question: “I'm just playing phone games.”

A guy, kind of aggressive sounding: “Yeah, well play them somewhere else.”

And the _bonk_ of something falling to the floor. Probably Cass's phone.

And then, someone knocks at the door. The same guy's voice as the one that just spoke says, “Fina? Fina, it's friends of your dad.”

“Fina, can we come in?”

Stephanie lightly steps over the side of the door, preparing to flick it open.

“Open up – !”

Stephanie doesn't. She waits. The guys start banging on the door harder, then someone steps back and kicks under the handle.

The door goes flying open and two guys pile in the room –

and that's when she moves.

She's right at the back of one, she draws back a hammerfist and whacks him as hard as she can in the back of his neck, right near the base of his skull. He yells and stumbles forward, out of it, but not unconscious.

The other guy wheels on her. He starts to reach for the gun in his waistband. Stephanie grabs his hand as it's in motion and starts to twist it over into a wrist-lock, but she must have got it wrong because he's out-muscling her to keep her from it –

she distracts him by kicking him in the knee. It works. He stops out-muscling her and she flips his hand over, then flips him onto his back.

She braces his arm against her leg, preparing to armbar it, but the other guy's gotten to his feet by now. She quickly takes out a batarang and throws it at his head to knock him out.

The guy at her feet reaches for his gun with his other hand, and she steps on his wrist to stop it. Positioning her right above him, so he sits up and tries to punch her in the inner thigh which – well it doesn't really do any damage, just kind of hurts. She drops a knee down on his chest and he groans.

Not really the most elegant ending to the fight, but it worked. And no one even got a shot off – granted that could have been because they came in unarmed, not wanting to draw attention to themselves.

“Good work,” Barbara says over comms.

The door to the restroom creaks open.

Even though Stephanie hasn't finished knocking this guy out – she guesses it feels a little pointless to knock out someone who can't fight back at the moment – Fina comes on out. She sees the two guys, one of them unconscious, the other pinned underneath Stephanie.

She starts towards Stephanie – and the guys she's sitting on. Her hands clench into fists and Stephanie wonders if she's going to _attack_ him, but she doesn't. She's just glowering down at him.

“He's one of the four,” she says, “from last night.”

“We weren't gonna do anything!” the guy under Stephanie says.

“Oh, shut up,” Stephanie says. She's not in the mood to hear it. Then, to Fina: “You should call the cops. I mean, they did break and enter.”

Fina takes a phone out of her pocket and starts dialing the police. Stephanie frisks the two for weapons and ties them up.

“Do you have any place you can stay?” Stephanie asks. Though she's guessing she already knows the answer to that.

“No,” Fina says. “I mean, obviously not.” She rubs her face quickly, and shifts her weight between her feet. Stephanie's worried she's going to flip out again. Or attack the guys who were going to kill her. Something.

In the hallway, Stephanie hears Cassandra's footsteps as she walks away, and they get quieter as she leaves. She guesses she stayed there as long as she needed to, to make sure Stephanie had a handle on this, and then went off once someone might, you know, ask her her name and potential questions as a witness.

“If the guys responsible for this aren't arrested with this information, we can set up a safe-house,” Barbara says over comms.

Stephanie nods. She knows they have to plan the next move, to find out how to nail these guys so they don't try to hurt Fina – or anyone else – ever again. But for now, she just waits with Fina for the police to arrive.

 

* * *

Stephanie meets back up with Cassandra after they make sure the police got there and that Fina is, at least for the moment, safe. Barbara promises to monitor the situation and make sure that everyone's taken care of. And honestly – it feels good to have someone just... help clean up the mess, and let Cass and Stephanie relax a bit.

She could go home, Stephanie supposes. She texted her mom some dumb excuse for why she wasn't in the house this morning – _went on a run to campus, studying for a test_ – but it's been a couple hours. She could have pretended to finish her run and go back. She's just not sure she wants to. So she and Cass just get some fast food for lunch/midnight snack – whatever they want to count a meal when they _should_ be sleeping but that happens at everyone else's lunch time – and sit up on a rooftop, where no one can overhear or bother them.

“You think what we did is going to be enough?” Stephanie asks. “With the suitcase you recovered and Fina's testimony and those two guys – ”

Cassandra shrugs.

Again, Stephanie can't tell what it means. Maybe it means she doesn't want to talk out loud? She concentrates and tries to remember the words, but it's _hard_. She got the sentence structure, that's hard to forget, but she hasn't practiced ASL much at all when she was with Leslie. _Do you prefer signing – ?_

Cassandra shrugs again, but keeps the conversation verbal. “I meant to say,” she says. “I don't know if it will be enough evidence. We find bad guys. Stop them. Catch them. But...”

“We don't always know how to put them away?” Stephanie asks. She's not entirely sure how much of the criminal justice system Cass knows – heck, she's not entirely sure how much she knows _herself_. She remembers what Batman taught her when she was Robin, but for the most part it just seemed like a farce. With her dad in and out of jail, or moving his minions into their house and they couldn't get him out without a lawyer because his _name_ was on the lease – and obviously, they couldn't afford one.

Cassandra nods.

Stephanie shoves her mouth full of fries and chews for a minute, to give her time to think of what to say next.

“You did... good... today,” Cassandra says eventually.

Stephanie smiles and swallows her fries. “Thanks.” She guesses she should return the compliment, but for the most part, she was just following Cass, and then acting as Batgirl while Cass guarded the door. She didn't really _see_ much of what she did. “I'm, um, glad you let me handle it?” she says, but the sentence comes out more as a question.

Cassandra looks off in the distance.

Stephanie still feels like things are slightly awkward, like there's a little bit of a distance between them, but she can't articulate _why_.

“Why...?” Cassandra begins, then stops.

Stephanie waits.

“Why didn't you _tell_ me – ?” she starts to ask. She lowers her brow line a bit and seems to be focusing. “I... I don't understand why you left,” she says.

Stephanie sighs.

She guesses this conversation has been a long time coming. She could say it was Leslie's idea. That would be the easy answer, well, because it _was_.

But it'd be a cop-out. She doesn't want to say she was afraid. But maybe she was. She almost died. But it's not that, because she's been in danger before – granted not quiet so _painful_ danger, but danger nonetheless.

“You don't want to tell me,” Cassandra says.

Stephanie wonders if it's written all over her body – after all this time, she doesn't know exactly how Cassandra's language works.

“I don't want to say it out loud,” Stephanie says.

 _Sign it_ , Cass suggests.

Stephanie shakes her head. “I mean, I don't want to...” What can she say? It's not anything she hadn't articulated to Leslie – though she guesses, not in the exact same way. “I messed up,” she says. “I got people killed...”

“The killers did the killing,” Cassandra says. “Not you.”

Stephanie knows it's a nice, comforting thought. Possibly even what Cassandra believes. But she asks, “Would you have done the same thing, then? What I did?”

Cassandra looks away.

Stephanie doesn't need secret body-language reading techniques to understand _that_. The answer is _no_. “So it was a mistake,” she says.

“And that's why you left?”

Now it's Stephanie's turn to look away. She doesn't have to say it, to admit it, to anyone, if she does. It's almost like she's just talking to herself. “A lot of reasons,” she says. “It was hard to be Spoiler, with everything going on – I guess I just felt like I was being yanked around by _him_.” She doesn't say who _he_ is, they both know. She also doesn't know if Cass will – well, not _take a swing_ , she doesn't _usually_ attack people outside of combat situations, but … _be mad_ at her. Half the time, it seemed like the word of Big Dad Bat was law.

But Cass doesn't do any of that. She just says, “He fired me, too, you know.”

Stephanie snaps her head towards her. “What? But you're _amazing_!” She is. Stephanie can't think of anyone as good a fighter as Cass, and she seemed to live and breathe discipline and vigilante training.

Cassandra rubs at her face a bit. “Not his best time,” she says. “Or mine.”

Stephanie reaches a hand towards her, but when she does, Cassandra just grabs her hand and pulls her into a hug, straight to her chest.

Stephanie blinks, and her eyes feel heavy. Damn, she's going to cry, isn't she?

“I missed you,” Cassandra says. Still holding her. Still not letting go.

“I missed you too,” Stephanie says. She hugs Cassandra back, and then pushes herself away and sits back up. She quickly wipes a tear away. “I want to say I'm sorry – for tricking you, for lying to you – ”

“Don't,” Cassandra begins.

Stephanie cuts her off. “No, let me finish. I want to say I'm sorry but I'm not sure if I am. I know I hurt you and it sucks, but – ”

Cassandra frowns a little.

Stephanie blitzes past her again. If she doesn't say this now, she's probably never going to. “I feel kind of like I ran away – like a kid who ran away from home to avoid dealing with something. And maybe I did. It was easier that way. That's why I'm back _now_. I'm not just doing what's easy.”

Cassandra swallows. “But you're not sorry?” she asks.

What can she say? She takes a sip of soda, drinking to force herself to slow down a bit and breath – like she did for Fina just a couple hours ago. “It's complicated,” she says eventually. “I can't tell whether I regret leaving or not. I don't think – ”

Well, she can't imagine anyone having been _okay_ with her afterwards, if she'd stayed. If she'd “lived”, almost. She already felt like the black sheep of the Bat-family.

She sighs. She doesn't want to take out any resentment over what happened on Cass. “It's weird,” she says. “Not telling you guys made sense. To get away from the Spoiler life. But I also didn't tell my mom.”

Cassandra nods. “If she was faking grief... we would know?” she asks.

Cass probably _would_ , but it's not why. “When I got back,” Stephanie says – again, it's easier to talk about it in terms of _getting back_ and _getting hurt_ than anything specific – “I asked Batman if that made me a bad daughter. My mom had only been sober for a couple years. It's not my job to manage her sobriety. But if anything would make you fall off the wagon, your daughter _dying_ might.”

“What did he say?”

Stephanie blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Frustratingly vague stuff. You know. 'You'd know that better than I would'. But... but that he was glad to have me back.”

Cassandra wraps an arm around her shoulder. “We all are,” she says.

Stephanie sighs and leans against her. She looks out at midday Gotham. It's not a nice city, but it is at the same time. It's dangerous, and it has problems, but it has good people and it's _home_. “I'm glad to be back too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I think I'm *finally* getting out of my writer's block!
> 
> I legit re-writ this chapter like 3 times trying to get the emotional beats right :P Still not sure.
> 
> Anyway this plotline was kind of inspired by Batgirl (2000), where lots of the one-off issues sort of comment on Cassandra's situation. Like with the kid who has a dad who is a criminal (he says "My dad's bad, isn't he?" and Cass says "yes, but you don't have to be") or Cass realizing Cain is her dad at the same time she's telling another criminal dad (this comic is full of them :P) that his daughter knows she's her dad, just subconsciously.
> 
> Also this is the first scene from Stephanie's POV I've written. It was hard :P 
> 
> Misc notes: 
> 
> yes i did include batman being like "I knew the whole time". I honestly dislike that inclusion cuz..... it seems like the writers want him to be omniscient or shit. Which is why I allowed doubt in Stephanie's internal narrative as to whether it was true or not. 
> 
> the reference to fidget spinners is cuz my dad brought them home from one of his meetings :P and I like it when I can make batman do this my dad does. it makes him more likeable. 
> 
> It was hard as hell for me to make Stephanie articulate why she left, because honestly it was never the authors intent for her to leave (they just retconned out her death).


	24. Batman 2 Batman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra finally tells Dick that she's Batman, and the two discuss what to do about Damian.

Batman knows this has been a long time coming.

She needs to tell Nightwing what she's doing.

She's not sure what she's expecting. Last time they spoke, he seemed almost insecure about being Batman. Said he felt like a fraud. But that was a month ago. A lot could have changed.

She wonders if she should have asked him right then if he wanted an out. It might have been nice to offer. But it was still at the point where talking about it hurt too much. If she didn't have to talk about it, she could almost pretend that nothing happened, except for on patrol, when she _was_ Batman. And on patrol, she didn't have to think too hard about it either – she was doing work.

It's past four a.m. when she finally finds Nightwing – she only bothered looking when patrol was already almost over, so she didn't distract him in the middle of _both_ of their prime patrol hours. She hopes he's not out with his new Robin right now. It's … it's hard to get an exact read on him. She knows he has League of Shadows training. Willing to fight hard, even when he was clearly wounded. He tried to kill Tim. But anything else is a mystery to her.

Fortunately, Nightwing is alone. He's grappling above the streets, in smooth motion. It's easy, with her training, to imagine that the others _didn't_ have a similar advantage, their first language was purely _words_ and not _body_. And that might be true for fighting, but watching Nightwing glide and flip through the air is enough to confirm it's not true for _everything_. There isn't a single motion that's wasted – even in the parts that _look_ ostentatious, like flipping head over heels, his center of mass moves smoothly from one point to another. The flipping is a distraction to his enemies – or fun for him, she supposes.

Nightwing perches on the ledge of a roof and takes out some binoculars. Batman shrinks back, hiding against the shadows, but he's not even pointing his binoculars at her – he's looking off, to the north. He then shoots off a grapple gun and starts moving again.

Batman follows. She knows this is a risky way to follow – the grapple guns aren't the quietest, and there's nowhere for her to hide when she's in midair, surrounded by only the city lights – but she also is going to have to reveal her presence soon _anyway_ , so there's no point in worrying too hard about it.

As she gets closer, she hears a whistle of police sirens, then a _crash._ She perches on top of a building and watches – Nightwing is following behind a truck, which is speeding away from a crashed police car. A man is on the truck's roof, shooting backwards at Nightwing, now that he noticed him.

Assuming Nightwing can manage the truck by himself, Batman quickly peaks down at the car to make sure there's no one injured who needs her help – two officers stumble out, and their body language indicates _confused_ , but there's no telltale limp of a broken limb, no hunching over from damaged internal organs. One of them immediately grabs a walkie-talkie and starts quickly speaking into it – clearly able to call for backup.

She's not needed here. She starts after Nightwing again, and sees him swinging after the truck.

Nightwing lets go of his rope and spins through the air gracefully. Lands on the back of the truck and immediately kicks the man with the gun in the face. The man stumbles back, the truck jerks forward, but before the man can lose his balance and fall off, Nightwing quickly grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. Then throws him so he lands on his chest, flat against the top of the truck. No longer falling off, but also no longer a threat.

They begin to disappear from view – unsurprising. It's hard to keep up with a car when all you have is a grapple.

She waited too long. She aims a grapple gun at the furthest skyscraper she thinks she can reach and shoots it, preparing to follow. Barely catches up when the truck makes a bad turn and starts tilting over.

Nightwing grabs the guy on top and shoots a grapple at a building nearby and swings away, taking them both away from the potential wreck. The rest of the truck slides until it hits the vacant outdoor seating of a restaurant.

They've stopped, at least. Batman perches on a gargoyle and keeps watching the scene, since it's not necessary for her to act at the moment. And besides – she wants to see how he does it. What he's like as... Batman.

Nightwing binds the hands of the man he rescued, and while that's happening, four people exit the truck. Two of them stumbling around a bit, coming from the trailer. The ones from the cabin don't seem as rocked. They must have had their seatbelts on or weren't thrown about.

As he turns to deal with them, it becomes harder for her to think of him as _Nightwing_. He doesn't move exactly like Batman, but he doesn't move like Nightwing, either. He's clearly imitating Batman's fighting style as best as he can, and as far as she knows, it's completely convincing to people who _haven't_ analyzed the real Batman with her unique ability.

He's a bit less mobile now. Not because Batman lacked the capacity to be mobile, he just preferred to make other people do the moving if he could. Whereas Nightwing did both about equally. Kept himself on the move, but also obviously used his opponents weight against them when it was necessary.

The fight ends anticlimactically. Dick – difficult to think of him as _Nightwing_ like this – ties up the combatants and brushes his hands off and then starts scanning the horizon. In her direction.

She waits. Doesn't run. She doesn't want him to think she's an enemy.

And after double checking and making sure the scene is secure, Dick makes his way towards her. First walking, then eventually grappling up. He lands on the roof of the building in front of her.

She doesn't speak first. She doesn't know what to say.

Dick looks over her. Head-to-toe. Assessing the threat. Of course. He doesn't know it's actually _her_.

“It's me,” she says in her normal voice. Then, in case that's not enough to go off, she adds, “Cassandra.”

“ _Cassandra_?!” Dick asks. “I thought – is that a new Batgirl costume?”

Cassandra shakes her head.

“We should talk,” Dick says. “... In private. To avoid questions.”

Cassandra nods. “Where's Robin?”

“At home.” In response to her inquisitive look, he adds, “I _can_ leave him at home occasionally.” Mouth twitches. Almost, but not quite, a smile. A bit more risorius than zygomaticus. Straight to the side more than _up_ and to the side. “When he lets me.”

Cassandra nods again.

“We can talk in the Batbunker,” Dick says.

A third nod. He turns to leave, and she follows him a couple hundred feet behind. Just to avoid being spotted right next together. In case there's a... _two Batman_ scandal. She doesn't know why the public would care. But... but Dick clearly thinks that it's not enough for people to carry on Batman's work, the public at large can't know he died at all. As if his name, and the continuous idea that there was only ever one near-invulnerable man in the suit, protected Gotham more than his actions.

She doesn't understand it. It almost doesn't seem fair.

Nightwing doesn't bother getting changed out of his costume when he arrives, so neither does she. She does take her cowl off to aid communication, though, and he does the same and stands in front of the bench by the lockers.

“So... what _exactly_ is going on?” Nighwting asks.

Cassandra sighs. She wishes she didn't vaguely feel like she was doing something wrong – not wrong to _her_ , but the fact that she felt the need to hide it just makes her feel other people will perceive her as guilty.

It's always hard to tell how other people perceive her.

“I... I'm Batman,” she says eventually.

Nightwing rubs his face and brushes back his hair. “What does that mean?”

“I'm doing what you're doing.” Isn't it obvious, with how she's dressed?

“Why didn't you _tell_ me?” Nightwing asks.

Hmm, she really wishes she had a good explanation for that. It made perfect sense in her head. At the time.

“I was – ” she pauses. Afraid is the wrong word. So is ashamed. The only answer that gets it best is that she didn't think Nightwing would approve, but she also doesn't think he'd _need_ to approve or that she'd need to ask permission.

She allows herself a brief glance around the room. The sparring zone has been set up differently than it was last time she was here. It looks almost like Oracle's holo-room. There's a Batmobile, parked, in a wide-open garage area. A red motorcycle. Too small for an adult, but a bit big for a ten-year-old.

She thinks she has her thoughts together. That she can finally say it. Saying why she _didn't_ tell anyone requires saying why she did it in the first place. “I wanted to carry on for him,” she says. “I... I miss him.”

Nightwing nods and swallows.

It's easier when they don't talk about this. She's beginning to regret coming here.

“He was like your father, wasn't he?” Nightwing asks.

Cassandra doesn't know the function of the word _like_ here, but she nods. “The first one who wasn't...” – she can't think of a concise way to explain the complicated emotions surrounding Cain, so she just borrows Stephanie's vocabulary –“... a piece of crap.”

“I'm sorry,” Nightwing says. It's difficult to tell how much he means it. He's hard to read right now – mostly he just seems slightly agitated, weight evenly distributed on each leg, resting on the balls of each foot, prepared to move quickly if need be.

Is she making him tense? Or just the situation?

Either way, there's no point in asking about it, so she just finishes. “So I wanted to honor him. Like you do.”

Nightwing shakes his head.

“You _don't_ want to honor him?”

Nightwing walks away a couple paces, then turns and faces her. Runs his hands through his hair, a bit agitated. “Of course I do,” he says. “This just... this doesn't feel like it. I mean it didn't. I spent my first month feeling like a fraud! Or a freaking kid playing dress up!”

She doesn't know what playing dress up means. Sometimes people just say things that she understands each individual word for, but the phrase obviously conveys a different meaning. She can tell from the tone he doesn't think it's good, though. _A freaking kid_. Not flattering.

“You said 'the first month'?” she asks eventually.

Nightwing sighs. “I got some... advice that helped me think about it a different way. But...”

He trails off.

Cassandra figures they need to talk about this at some point. So she just lowers her eyebrows and prepares herself and asks, “Are you going to ask me to stop?”

Nightwing furrows his brow and shakes his head slowly. He crosses his arms again. His stance is closed off. Not giving her much to go off. “I don't think I have the right to,” he says.

He's right. He doesn't. But she also knows it will be easier if they work together. And still, he's... reluctant. She can tell. “Do _you_ want to stop?” she asks.

Nightwing squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. His shoulders are a bit higher than they usually are, tenser. He exhales slowly, and the tension seems to relieve itself somewhat. “I don't know,” he says slowly. “If you asked me a month ago, I would have been able to tell you right away – the answer would have been _yes_.”

Cassandra knows that. She knows that he didn't seem enthusiastic about it at all. She doesn't really understand it, though. Why was he doing this if he didn't want to?

She knows he felt like he _had_ to. But she's not doing this because she _has_ to do it, she's doing it because she _wants_ to do it. She wants to protect Gotham. She wants to carry on for the man she _wishes_ had raised her – they'd only met when she was a late teenager, and he didn't even admit to them being family until only a little bit before he died.

“That was a month ago,” Cassandra says slowly, putting the words together. “What about now?”

He sighs. “I don't know. I really don't. I've got these... responsibilities I didn't have earlier.”

Cassandra furrows her brows in an expression of curiosity to prompt him to talk more, because she's unaware about any new responsibilities. He was already a superhero before this. That's already a lot of responsibility.

Nightwing takes her expression as a cue to explain. “Well, I already established a rapport with the police,” he says. “I don't want them to freak out more. They're already confused about this Batman thing, with everything... With everything Jason did.” He swallows as he says it. Guilty.

Guilty because he didn't stop Jason sooner? Or... the same kind of guilt that the real Batman seemed to have about Jason, for not having protected him?

“I understand,” Cassandra says. She isn't sure how she'd establish the rapport with the police. When she and Robin worked in Bludhaven temporarily, it was  _ Robin  _ who handled most of the talking. She can talk. Obviously. She's doing it right now. But she's not sure she can mimic Batman's voice and cadence to people who actually knew him.

“Then there's the Damian situation,” Nightwing says. “I feel like we're just hanging on by a thread. Like... I'm trying as hard as I can.”

Cassandra nods. She steps forward and pats him on the shoulder. It's intended to be encouraging, but he just looks confused.

“Uh, anyway,” Nightwing says. “I just don't want to change things when they're sort of working.”

“Because Damian is your Robin?” Cassandra asks.

Nightwing nods.

Cassandra doesn't know how she'd handle having a sidekick. She doesn't feel she needs one. But she's not entirely sure  _ he  _ feels he needs one, either – after all, Nightwing patrolled alone for the most part.

“You wanted my help earlier,” Cassandra realizes. “When you asked me over for sparring.”

Nightwing cringes slightly, like she just found some embarrassing secret. “I guess,” he says. “I mostly wanted your perspective. You're probably the person whose the closest to knowing what he's going through.”

Cassandra nods. Not exactly the same situation, of course. When she had left Cain, she was alone. Completely alone. Damian has people – a family, a brother – her brother as well, she guesses – that he tried to  _ kill _ . When they met, she wanted to scream  _ Don't you know how lucky you are?! Why are you throwing it all away?  _ But  _ having  _ to feel lucky that things aren't even worse just feels messed up. The entire situation feels messed up. The same thing she told Nightwing earlier. She's sick of people thinking they can turn children into weapons.

“I guess,” Cassandra says slowly. “I guess I'm most likely to know what he's going through.”

What perspective could she possibly give Nightwing, though, on a kid she's met only twice before and talked to  _ once _ ? She can only think of what she wanted at that age or needed in retrospect.

She supposes that the most applicable advice without seeing him would be... “Try giving him a hug,” she says. She wanted... she needed someone to hold her. To be affectionate with her. Something physical that wasn't fighting.

Nightwing kind of winces and smiles at the same time.

“What?” she asks.

“I'm pretty sure if I tried to hug Damian, he'd stab me,” Nightwing says. “Literally.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes and frowns. She doesn't know how accurate Nightwing's assessment is. But it  _ feels  _ almost insulting. Robin was almost scared of her before they first met, wary that her background somehow made her... more dangerous or less approachable. She can't tell if Nightwing is doing the same thing to a freaking child. Except he's not a fourteen-year-old with comparatively less experience.

“You think I'm making a crass joke, but I'm not,” Nightwing says. He swallows a little and his eyebrows pitch up ever so slightly in the center of his forehead. Almost imperceptible, but it seems like an expression of sadness or pity. “Damian – if I try to comfort him in a normal way, he thinks I'm insulting him. The one time I told him he didn't have to worry and that he was safe here, he told me to stick to what I know. He's very proud, and I'm saving all of my course correcting for getting him to not kill or injure people, not making sure he's acting like a 'normal' kid. I'm picking my battles.”

Cassandra looks away. Watching Nightwing be sad about someone she doesn't know very well is just uncomfortable. She doesn't know what to do about the emotion and her lack of knowledge in this area is just making her feel like she's flying in blind. Like she can't help.

“If you want my advice,” she says, and peeks back towards Nightwing, “I need to interact with Damian. No buffer. Me and him.”

Nightwing nods. “As Batman and Robin? Or as Bruce's kids?”

“Batman and Robin,” Cassandra says, just because she's sure that she's more herself when doing her work than she would be in a forced-civilian scenario. She wonders if the case would be the same for Damian.

Nightwing sighs and meanders back over to the bench, where he sits down suddenly, slumped over, more tired than would be explained by just patrol. “Tonight?” Nightwing asks. “After sleep and work?”

Cassandra nods. She might as well. No reason to waste time.

“Thank you,” Nightwing says.

Cassandra nods again, awkwardly, and leaves. She's assuming she got done what she needed to tonight. Told Nightwing – Dick, whichever way is easier to think of him now even she can't tell – that she was Batman. And she might even be able to help Damian. If that's something she can do.

She doesn't know what Robin – Tim – will think. She knows he's not comfortable with Nightwing right now, but she didn't get the exact explanation as to why. She knows that when Damian first came to live with Bruce, a couple months ago, Robin asked her to assess whether he was a threat or not through a video cam era. He was wary of the child, even back then, and she supposes he was right to be wary. She's completely aware that Robin and Nightwing's fight  _ could  _ have been because of this. But if Robin's going to get angry at her for trying to help a child who was in the same position she was, that's  _ his  _ prerogative. She's not about to change what she thinks is right.

And...

She can't help but wonder if some of the reason Robin is so mad is because he saw the violence up front. Which she can't fault him for. But he never saw  _ her  _ violence up front. He wasn't there for her kill.

She attempts to get to s leep. And when she does, it's a dream she hasn't had in a while – her tiny fist, as an eight-year-old child, covered in blood. But the throat she ripped out isn't of a civilian in a suit this time. When she looks to see who she killed, she only sees Batman.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Now we can finally see why I had to keep Cass so separate from everyone else for the first 20 odd chapters. I needed Dick to get at least comfortable enough being Batman that he wouldn't be like "Oh thank God please take this responsibility from my chest". Because canonically, Dick seems like he only is Batman because nobody else is.
> 
> I feel like Cass and Damian could have some very potentially interesting interactions, because they were raised in situations that were similar but they also have just as many similarities as they do differences (which we will see when they interact in... 2 chapters I think?) so there's a lot of potential foil room. 
> 
> The thing Cassandra mentions Tim asking her to do isn't main canon, it just happened in the Batman and Son Rewrite I did and I'm making my own canon.


End file.
